


A Stroke of the Brush

by jessethejoyful



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, agatha is a bio/veterinary student lmao, baz is drawing and painting, i'm just impatient and don't believe in plotting things out so here i am, idk who all is gonna show up in this, it's still very much a work in progress, penny is art history and sculpting, shoving this at you all, simon is an animator, the art school au no one asked for, they say you should write what you know so here i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-18 15:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15488646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessethejoyful/pseuds/jessethejoyful
Summary: The life of an art major is never easy, which they'll always remind you. When they cross paths, Baz and Simon aren't ready for each other, but they end up making room for the other anyways.





	1. i'd love it if we made it

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my first stint into writing a carry on fic - hope you guys enjoy it! <3 idk how much this'll update, as fast as I can write it I guess

**BAZ**

At the end of every spring and fall semester, the art school hosts a student showcase, so we can gain experience with exhibitions and the like. I thought about entering a piece, one of my paintings, but I deliberated long enough that I missed the deadline. Which is absolutely fine, because everything from this semester felt like garbage to me anyways. I was trapped somewhere in my own headspace - but, anyway.

I wander through the student show, my eyes passing across the canvases and sculptures. Mentally, I have to keep my nose from wrinkling at some of them (how did these kids get into an art school? Is there actually any criteria, or do you just have to toss paint on a slab and say please?). Some of the students are standing next to their pieces, obviously brimming with pride. There’s one boy stopping anyone who is unfortunate enough to glance his way, and asking them a barrage of questions about his creepy painting of a bunch of... trolls? Goblins? (“How does it make you _feel_ ? Which one is your _favorite_? How much would you pay for this?”) I avoid him carefully, giving him and his painting a wide berth.

It’s something of a surprise when I come across a laptop, set up on a podium by itself. That’s not art. But when I wander up to get a closer look, I realize it’s an animation reel. I’ve come up at the tail end of someone throwing a ball at a wall, which looks nice but is rather boring. I’m about to turn away when it changes to another clip.

The shot begins on a girl, curled in on herself, with a moment of her finger tapping the white space beneath her. And then she shoots up, arms flaring wide, head tilting back, and I’m blown away by the style of it. It’s not normal 2D animation, but a sketchy, wild style that somehow carries a lot of emotion just in the chaos. The video follows the girl, a ballerina, through a routine that I imagine would be heart-wrenching if it had music with it. Even without, I feel a pull in my chest, watching the obvious pain that flits across her shadowy and angular face.

I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s beautiful.

The scene ends with the girl knelt down again, her back heaving as she breathes heavily, and I realize I’ve been holding my own breath. It comes out in a rush as the reel changes again. I expected something just as amazing, but instead have my eyes assaulted by an ugly, gritty-looking clip of two stick figures beating the shit out of each other. I feel the scowl rise on my face and narrow my eyes at the name attached to the podium.

 _Simon Snow_ \- who the fuck would name their kid Simon Snow? Sounds like the heroine of some sappy young adult novel. Maybe it’s an alias for a less idiotic name.

I straighten and adjust my jacket, eyes flicking back to the screen in the hopes that the ballerina clip was back, but instead it’s moved on to some boring clip of fish leaping from a river. My scowl deepens, and I move on, refusing to return to the laptop. Anyone who would put such a stupid video in a showcase deserves no more of my attention.

The name Simon Snow flits through my head now and then over the summer, while I serve coffee at a small, artsy shop near campus. I wonder if he ever comes in, but no one claims the name Simon for their cup, and eventually I forget about the reel, and Simon Snow, entirely.

Until the start of the new term, when I’m carrying my supplies into the art building, my heavy bag hung painfully on one shoulder. A girl’s voice shrieks, “Simon!” and I’m nearly bowled over as she dives by me, and I register a mane of frizzy red hair and warm brown skin, similar to my own.

“Sorry, Basil!” she squeals as she barrels away, and I’m startled enough that it takes me a moment to reply.

“How do you -?” But she’s already gone, down at the end of the long corridor and throwing her arms around a tallish boy with wild bronze hair, freckles so numerous I can see them from here, and a laugh that reverberates through the hall.

 _That’s_ Simon Snow?

Shit.

 

**SIMON**

Penny surprised me in the art building, but I was glad she did - she’s been gone all summer to study in Italy, and I’d missed her like I’d miss my left hand. She spent nearly two hours chattering to me about the different sites she toured, the museums she visited, the food she’d eaten, and I listened happily, grateful to have her voice filling up our cozy flat again. It had been far too empty without her.

I don’t know how she does it, but Penny is double-majoring in art history _and_ sculpture. She’s dead brilliant at both of them. I was royally fucked in my own mandatory art history class until she started helping me. We’ve been friends since high school, so she knows I’m shit at studying, but I managed to brush by with her help. Thank God - I wasn’t eager to repeat that class. The professor nearly fell asleep at his own lectures, I don’t know how Penny can stand him - and he’s her faculty advisor.

Despite the heavy course load I signed on for this semester, I’m glad to be back at it. I spend summers feeling off-center, like I lose my sense of direction for a few months before wandering back from the wilderness in September with leaves in my hair (it’s a feeling that’s kind of hard to describe).

Animation is a lot more work than anyone outside of the field realizes. I don’t think I even realized it when I started, but now I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else. Watching my pieces come to life on a screen is like a drug, a high that’ll never come down.

But it’s exhausting.

During the semesters, I spend more time in the computer lab than out of it, making use of the huge tablets and desktops provided by the school. Penny will come hang out now and then, but I get so scary focused and quiet that she usually gets bored and wanders out after a few minutes. She fell asleep there once, half-off her chair, and I let her sleep, waking her up around two when it was time for us to walk back to the flat.

Now we’re only a few weeks into the new term, and I’ve already fallen back into the habit, chatting up the lab’s student assistant before I claim my spot in a corner, ready to work until I pass out.

I try to keep an eye on the clock, but I get so into my work that hours pass without my notice. When I realize I’ve been there for coming on six hours without a break, I force myself to drop my pen and sit up, feeling my back creak in the process. I think I’ll go heat up one of the frozen meals I’d thrown in the student fridge last week; I can feel the hunger creeping up in my stomach.

It’s so late, just past midnight, that barely anyone is around. I’d work at home if I could, but the equipment is so expensive that I can’t really afford my own, with only a laptop and a shitty knock-off tablet that I use for personal stuff. The cord is fraying and half of the time won’t connect, but it does what I need.

I’m shocked when I amble into the student lounge to find a guy digging through the fridge, the room around him so dim that the bright white light makes him look pale, like a vampire. But when he closes the door and stands up, I realize he’s got almond brown skin, and grey-green eyes like a deep lake. And he’s scowling at me.

“Can I help you with something?” he snarls, clutching a carton of cream, and I’m immediately caught off guard by the aggression in his tone.

“Yeah mate, you’re in front of the fridge,” I say slowly, pointing. His cheeks darken and he steps away, heading to the counter where there’s coffee brewing. Neither of us says anything for a long bit, while I pull my food out and chuck it in the microwave.

Out of the corner of my eye, I observe him, trying to take stock. The half-up bun and long sleeve black button-up seem about right, but I’m surprised by the massive black combat boots, giving him an easy extra two inches in height.  

Finally, because the silence is deafening, I say, “Working late, then?”

His answer is abrupt. “Yes.”

I try again. “My name’s Simon.”

“I know.”

I furrow my eyebrows at him, fed up. “Want to tell me yours then, or are you just going to keep being a dickhead?”

This clearly startles him, looking at me with wide eyes and saying his name, two quick syllables. “Bas-il.”

“Bazzzz-il,” I drawl, dragging out the z sound present in that ridiculous name. His lip curls, _actually_ curls, and I’m almost impressed before something occurs to me. “Wait. Not Basil, as in T. Basilton Pitch?” There’s no way there’s multiple people in the world with a similar name, let alone this school.

“The very same.” I’m floored. This is the prat whose art I always notice in the halls? Every time I see an impeccable figure study or a breath-taking oil painting, the name ‘T. Basilton Pitch’ is always attached underneath.

Five minutes ago, if you had asked me who I thought was the most talented in the building, I would’ve said Pitch immediately. But now that the arse is standing in front of me, antagonizing me, I’m not about to give out any compliments.

“Oh. I’ve seen your work in the cases.” The microwave beeps at me, and I fiddle with it before saying grumpily, “S’ pretty nice.” Damn. That sounded more sincere than I’d meant it to.

“I’m flattered, I’m sure,” Basilton says sharply, before loudly dropping his mug into the sink and disappearing out the door. I throw myself down at one of the tables and start shoveling mashed potatoes into my mouth, annoyed now.

T. Basilton Pitch.

What a _tit._

 

**PENNY**

It’s 3 am when Simon finally wanders in, squinting even in the darkness, dragging his feet like he’s left lead in his shoes. He always does this, pushing himself to the edge of exhaustion and probably ruining his eyes in the process.

And then he has the audacity to try and lecture _me_. I’m reading by a soft lamp when he comes in, and he snaps at me about damaging my eyes, by reading in such dim light. I raise my eyebrows at him and flip the book shut. “Who spit in _your_ tea tonight, Simon?”

He glances at me apologetically, dropping his bag onto the floor before throwing himself down on the couch beside me, head resting on my hip. “ _Basil_ ,” he growls, as I absentmindedly run my fingers through his curls.

“Oh, met him, did you?” Simon sits up and looks at me sharply.

“You _know_ him? How?”

I shrug. “He was in my Drawing II class. Put the rest of us to shame, with his drawings and his shit attitude. The professor told him to shut the fuck up once when he made a girl cry, and he just sneered at him. It was quite a scene.”

It _had_ been a real scene. I make a point not to be friends with assholes, but I remember I couldn’t help being a little bit fascinated by this tall dark prat, who looked ready to throw hands every time the professor said anything. And it hadn’t really been his fault that girl started crying - we were in the middle of a peer critique, and Baz told her in somewhat harsher terms that her anatomy was way off (which it had been).

She’d just started bawling. It was embarrassing for everyone.

I tell Simon as much, and he seems genuinely intrigued. “Maybe he’s just an asshole to people he doesn’t know,” Simon says slowly. “Maybe if I’m nice to him, he’ll be nice back.”

“Simon, not everyone’s like you. Like if a golden retriever became a human.” He looks almost offended at this. “Baz is endlessly contrary. I wouldn’t put money on even you being able to befriend him.”

“Penn, come on. Everyone needs friends.”

I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

 

**BAZ**

Three days after I officially met Simon Snow, I’m still kicking myself for the whole thing.

Seeing him up close had just been too much. This dead handsome idiot, standing over me at nearly one in the morning, staring at me with his mouth open - far too much for my sleep deprived brain. I’d gone and made a complete ass of myself.

It was the first time I’d left my studio that day, just looking for a coffee, and my brain had stayed behind.

Honestly, though, it’s probably all for the best. I’m too fucking queer to have a guy that good-looking around on a regular basis. (What is up with all those freckles? He looks ill. I want to draw the constellations on his face.)

When next I see him, it’s thankfully from a distance again, far across the campus green. He’s got two girls with him. I recognize one of them, short and stout with that mad frizzy hair, but the other is a complete stranger. Even far off, I can tell she’s beautiful, even to my gay ass. (I’m gay, not blind.) She’s the kind of beautiful you can’t help but notice. Waist-length honey blonde hair, a perfect figure, expensive-looking clothes and high-heel ankle boots, though they still don’t make her as tall as Simon.

Too late, I realize I’ve completely stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, gaping at them across the lawn. My eyes lock with Simon’s, and suddenly he breaks out into this enormous grin.

I might be a little fucked.

Simon is saying something to the girls and then jogging toward me, and my time to escape has fled. Not that I could’ve - that smile was so much I think it rendered me briefly immobile, gluing my shoes to the pavement.

“Hey, Basil,” Simon greets me sheepishly, stopping before me and rubbing the back of his neck. He looks so carefree, in loose jeans that somehow look good, and a graphic tee partially covered by a paint-stained hoodie. He rips the green beanie off his head and shoves his hands through his orange curls, making them stand on end. And he’s wearing these massive circular, wire-framed glasses, and I’m mesmerized.

“...Hey?” I say, cursing myself for letting it come out sounding like a question. Simon doesn’t even seem to notice, his smile smaller now but no less painful to look at.

“Look, I wanted to apologize for the other night. I was completely knackered, I’d been in the lab for hours and was feeling a bit grouchy.” To say I’m startled by this apology is putting it lightly. I’d been rude first, what is he apologizing for? Defending himself?

Maybe just this once, it would pay to play nice. I glance over Simon’s shoulder, where the two girls were still watching their interaction, waiting. “Er - it’s alright. I’m - sorry as well. I was barely functioning that night.” Simon’s face lit up at my mostly friendly response, and I think I must be barely functioning now.

“Penny and Agatha and I are going off campus for a bite, you wanna come along?” Agatha must be the other girl. I vaguely remember the name Penny, some distant memory from second semester. But there’s no way I’m up for that much social interaction today; just this one has nearly killed me.

“Ah, I’ll - have to pass,” I choke out. “I’ve got a date.” Simon looks surprised before I finish, “With my studio.”

There’s no way it’s relief that flashes across Simon’s face at that amendment. No fucking way.

“Oh, right, then,” he says. “Another time, then.”

Weary now, I try to smile, but it feels like more of a grimace, before I stride away.

“Basil!” Simon calls my name and I turn back to look. Now that I’m looking at him, he seems not to know what to say, his hand pulling awkwardly back to his chest like he’d been reaching out. “Uh - good luck with the painting!”

“Cheers,” I reply, walking away then without looking back.

 

**SIMON**

I’m wandering back to the computer lab that evening when I notice the light on in the studio labeled T. Pitch. It’s pretty late, already after ten, and while I’m not surprised Basil is still here, I’m a little curious. I’d grabbed a few scones from the bakery Penny works at before coming back to campus, with a mind to eat them later - but maybe Baz would like one. I’d heard Penny call him Baz, and I can’t blame him for the nickname. I wouldn’t want people calling me Basilton either.

I wonder what the T stands for? Could it be something _worse_ than Basilton? Is that possible?

I knock twice on the door of the studio before turning the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. Baz is clearly shocked to see me, jerking his hand away from canvas he’s working and yanking his earbud out.

“Christ - ever heard of knocking?” All this guy seems to know how to do is snap and snarl. I’m already bristling.

“I did knock.”

“Well, you’re supposed to wait for me to say _come in._ ”

“You’ve got headphones in.”

“ _Exactly_.”

I force myself to take a deep breath, before I hold up the pastry bag. “Thought I’d bring you some food. You seem the type to get sucked in and forget to eat, am I right?” I can tell by the defensive look on his face that I am. “Look - don’t say anything. Just take this, alright?” I take the wrapped pastry from the bag and toss it too him, and he’s not too bewildered to catch it. “Have fun, yeah?” I back out the door before Baz can say anything else and snap it shut.

I don’t know what I expected. Some declaration of gratitude? I’d never expect that of anyone, let alone that prickly bastard. That’s not why I do things for people.

But fuck, was it too much to even be civil? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so grouchy. He’d seemed so quiet earlier, soft, almost. Shy. Maybe he’s bipolar. It wouldn’t surprise me whatsoever.

Or maybe he’s just an asshole.

I continue onto the lab, spinning my chair so the back touched the desk, and straddle it, resting my chin on the cushion. Penny yells at me that I’m going to ruin my back sitting like this, but it’s comfortable, so I always ignore her.

I’m struggling with a frame I’m working on, unable to get the flow right between shots. It makes me blink out sometimes, when I get really stressed by something that isn’t meshing. Normally I’d take a walk, but I’m not so sure tonight. What if I run into Baz? I’m pretty sure I’d deck him at this point, I’m so worked up.

I should probably just call it a night. I look at the clock - 2 am. Yeah, I’ll just call it a night. I flick the light off as I leave the lab, letting the door shut behind me.

As I walk by the private studios, I notice Baz’s light is still on.

I keep walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title - love it if we made it by the 1975


	2. is there anyone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone for the support!!! I'm going to be posting this as I write it bc I don't plan anything I do so the posts won't be very periodical! or any kind of set length! sorry!!!!!

**BAZ**

I’m in full-on punishment mode when I wake up the next morning.

I’d been in the studio until four, which was ridiculous and probably unnecessary. I haven’t pulled a stunt like that since freshman year, and my body doesn’t take the ill-treatment as well as it used to. I set my phone alarm for seven and don’t let myself hit the snooze, instead forcing myself up and into a pair of joggers and a tee. Fill my water bottle, and step out the door.

It’s been weeks since I’ve gone jogging, and never in the morning - I’d taken to going to the gym in the middle of the night, when it was quiet and no one would bother me.

I’m closing my door behind me when the door across the hall swings open. I only moved into this flat a month ago, and have so far managed to avoid meeting any of my neighbors by being mostly nocturnal (except the blonde woman down the hall who brought me brownies once at three am, which are still sitting untouched on my counter). So when Simon _fucking_ Snow steps out into the hall, gaping at me like an idiot and wearing athletic shorts that are far too short, I figure that this is just my luck in life.

“Basil,” he breathes, eyes widening as he’s clearly struggling to process this new information. “What’re you - doing in that apartment?”

Is he actually this thick? “I live here.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but suddenly his brow furrows and his mouth dips into a scowl. He’d look like a thug if he wasn’t wearing the most ridiculous hair band I’ve ever seen, pushed back to keep his curls off his forehead. He slams his door shut for good measure before stalking down the hall, disappearing into the stairwell.

I try not to let it bother me, but I’m a little disappointed. I’d been lecturing myself on being nicer, at least by some small degree, the next time I saw Simon. But it’s clear my mean spirit has fully driven him off. I try not to let it get to me, but it does.

My father used to tell me I self-sabotage my relationships with other people, and I told him to sod off. I suppose maybe he had a point, somewhere in his condescension.

No point in dwelling on it, though. I ignore the tightness gripping my chest and head out of the building, and Snow is nowhere to be seen. Absolutely fine. I start down the road, ignoring everything going through my head, and focusing on my feet hitting the pavement, and the music roaring in my ears. I’m not even sure what I’m listening to this morning; it sounds like it might be Mitski, but I’m not certain.

When I get home, it’s nearly nine. It’s Saturday and I don’t have any classes, but I’m scheduled to be at work at ten. I take a quick shower, throw on my usual black v-neck and jeans, and the hideous anti-slip shoes I’m forced to wear, and head back out the door.

The shop is quiet when I walk in, late enough in the morning that the rush has already passed, and early enough that lunch won’t be for a few hours. Just how I like it.

It’s only me and Niall today, which is fine. Niall’s a pretty good friend, a bit of a moron but with excellent taste in music, and he’s in charge of the playlist singing over the soft speakers today (Walk the Moon. Bastille. The 1975. Beautiful.). We joke around while we work - well, he jokes around, and I crack a smile or two. He never minds my seemingly perpetual foul mood, and does great impressions of the shitty customers we often get.

When Niall disappears into the back to restock, I glance down at my phone, confident there’s no one at the counter. But someone prettily clears their throat, and I look up to see a blonde girl standing at the counter, smiling. It's the girl that had been with Simon and Penelope - his girlfriend, maybe? She has massive shades pulled up on top of her head, revealing light brown eyes that are more or less unremarkable.

“I’m sorry,” I say, slipping my phone into my apron and approaching the register. “What can I get you?” My normally bored tone is gone, much to my chagrin.

“Just an iced coffee, please. No sugar, but plenty of cream. And a shot.” Her accent is incredibly posh, especially compared to Simon’s. She sounds more like me, like she comes from money. And I’m almost amazed by her order - I’d been expecting her to order one of our massive, frankly disgusting frappuccinos, none of which actually have any coffee in them.

I swipe the card she hands me before going to make her drink, and she follows me down the counter. I can feel her eyes watching me.

Just as I’m about to crack and ask casually about Simon, she speaks first. “You were talking to Simon the other day, weren’t you? On the green. Basil, right?” I’m relieved she asks it, so I don’t have to worry about her reporting my curiosities to Simon.

“That’s me,” I say cooly, clicking the plastic lid onto her drink and sliding it to her. “Are you in the art school as well?” It’s the polite question. I play a good role.

She laughs prettily. Everything she does is so  _pretty_. “Goodness, no. I don’t really have an artistic bone in my body, outside of color matching, and I know that hardly counts. I’m studying veterinary science.”

Interesting. “Dating an art major must be weird, then, as a STEM student.” It’s a desperate stab in the dark, and she looks surprised.

“What - Simon?” I nod, feeling my frown. “Simon and I _aren’t_ dating. He’s practically my brother, we grew up together. My parents took him in, after -” She cuts off, her cheeks turning pink. “Well, never mind.”

Also interesting. I’m brimming with questions, and she obviously has something of a big mouth, but I don’t want to push my luck. I just nod knowingly. “That’s cool.”

“Do you have any siblings?” She seems determined to keep talking, and there’s no one waiting, so I decide to keep playing along.

“Four half-siblings, all younger. Absolute terrors. What about you?”

Agatha shakes her head, and I’m wondering if she practices it in front of a mirror, it’s so carefully flawless. Her hair barely even moves.

“Not apart from Simon, no. My parents drew the line at the two of us, which is honestly fine by me.” I’m at a loss on how to continue the conversation, which is just as well, because her phone rings at that moment. She looks at the screen and sighs, then glances back up at me. “I’ve got to run. I’m Agatha, by the way. Nice meeting you.” She’s already putting the phone to her ear and striding out, hips swinging and coffee in hand.

I’m reeling with all this new information. An adopted sister, suspicious family past, possibly no significant other (which _is_ a bit of a shock). Who is this guy?

 

**SIMON**

Maybe I should’ve been nicer to Baz. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been that rude to someone without being prompted. Not that he hasn’t prompted me to be rude by being a shit at every possible moment.

My jog turns into a run, and I get back to the apartment fit to pass out. I manage to crawl into the shower and just laze around afterward, trying not to fall back asleep. I’m on the couch puttering around on my tablet and doing some personal sketching, when Penny comes in the door. It’s early, around ten, and I didn’t see her leave this morning. When I question her, she smiles.

“I stayed over with Micah,” she explains, and I nod.

Micah is her American boyfriend, who decided to do his uni here in order to be closer to Penny. I’m grateful, since I always figured Penny would leave me for Micah and the States, but so far that hasn’t happened.

“I saw a help wanted sign today, Simon,” she calls as she disappears into her room. “At that art store in town? The one you love?”

I scoff. “I don’t _love_ it. I just think it’s - really cool.” It _is_ really cool, wall-to-wall with all sorts of art supplies, anything you can imagine. They even sell tablets. They also teach painting classes twice a month, some painter who comes in to teach the lessons. And sometimes they have events where local artists can sell their art, and it’s always a big to-do. I’ve never been, but Penny has sold a few sculptures there.

“Whatever. I think you should go apply. At least give it a _shot_ Simon, you haven’t had anything since -”

“Alright, alright!” I yell back, slamming a throw pillow over my face and slumping into the couch. I got fired from my last job nearly a year ago, at the bookstore on campus. I don’t want to go into details, but that display was already really wobbly and way too near the edge of that staircase.

“Today, Simon!” Penny shouts before closing the door to the bathroom. I groan but get up anyways, going to rummage through my dresser for something presentable. I manage to find a button-down and some slacks all the way at the very back, suspiciously creased but not enough to be unwearable.

As it turns out, the management at the art store is desperate for some quick help, because of an event coming up next week and two sudden leavers. Only two hours and a heap of paperwork later, and I’ve got a new job. I’m a little annoyed at how much time this will take away from the lab, but I know it’s for the best. And they said they’ll work completely around my school schedule, which is nice.

We go through some training procedures, shown to me by the only remaining regular employee (a cute girl with short, curly brown hair, whose name is apparently Anna - which is easy enough to remember), and go over the dress code (Very casual and an apron. Bless.), before they let me go home. _And_ I’ll get paid for the time I spent there this afternoon.

Penny is over the moon when I get home. She starts fiddling in the kitchen, saying she’s going to make us dinner to celebrate - but there’s a reason our kitchen goes mostly untouched, as she burns the whole thing and fills the apartment with smoke. We decide to go out, her treat. I call Agatha to come along, and she says she’ll meet us at the restaurant.

“I’m so proud of you, Simon,” she says as we sit down. “This will be so good for you. I know you were kind of aimless after -”

“Oi, quit bringing it up!” My ears are warm and I shove a breadstick in my mouth, pouting as Penny and Agatha share an amused look.

“Well,” Agatha begins again, “you’ll never guess who I ran into today at that posh little coffee shop downtown. The one with all the paintings on the walls?” It’s funny to hear Agatha call anything posh, considering her - _everything_ , but I ask who it was. “That boy from the green. Basil.” I choke on a mouthful of bread, and Penny slaps me on the back. “I don’t know what you were talking about, Simon, he was perfectly polite. A bit shy, even. He seemed a little wary of me.”

“Probably because he hates me and anyone associated with me,” I grumble, though I perk up as the food arrives, plates piled high with pasta.

“I don’t know that he does,” Agatha says thoughtfully, twirling a noodle with her fork. “He asked if you and I were dating.”

I nearly choke again, at both that idea and Baz inquiring about it.

“What the fuck?” I say, laughing slightly.

Agatha shrugs. “I don't know, Simon. Perhaps you’ve misread him.”

I _know_ I haven’t misread him. I guarantee he just thinks Agatha is hot, and was trying to find out if she was available. That’s been half my life, guys trying to get close to me to get to Agatha. I end up scaring most of them off, creepy pricks. Agatha has never had a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, for that matter. She’s never mentioned any kind of interest at all, actually. I don’t think she _has_ any interest in anyone like that.

We all go back to the flat together, and end up staying late watching some new show on Netflix, sipping from huge mugs of tea and making fun of the cliches. Then Penny falls asleep, almost dropping her tea, and Agatha decides to call it a night as well. I tuck a blanket around Penny before I wander to my own bed, throwing myself down and passing out without another thought of anyone nicknamed after a stupid spice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title - is there anyone by the kents  
> simon laughing: https://media.tenor.com/images/a12df535d93ff7d5837a34894db818af/tenor.gif


	3. do i wanna know?

**BAZ**

Class on Monday is an unexpected balm to my stress, and I’m feeling rather pleased with myself when I walk out. The professor was very complimentary, as they often are, but this felt different. Maybe because I’d felt so unsure about the piece. The colors had felt off, and I told the professor as much, but he told me it conveyed something private and almost intimate about me.

Which is cool, but a little scary. I don’t like to convey too much about myself, not to anyone.

Dev had texted me that morning about getting lunch, and I agreed to meet him in the student union after class, where several fast food restaurants have storefronts. I don’t have much interest in the food, but I do get myself a milkshake and let myself enjoy it. Meanwhile, Dev sits down with a tray full of fried food, and I try to ignore how the smell makes my stomach twist. My cousin might also come from money, but he never really acts like it. It’s almost refreshing sometimes.

Almost.

“So you ready for the show?” Dev asks, shoving food in his mouth like a cretin. He talks while he chews, mouth open and on disgusting display. “Aren’t you taking like three pieces this time?”

I grit my teeth, fighting down the swirling anxieties that threatens at the edge of my mind. The art supply store in town is hosting another huge art sale party. I always attend with one piece, and am out of there before ten o’clock. That much of a crowd, milling around and _talking_ about art - nope. My social anxiety doesn’t allow for it. But Fiona was up my ass this summer to do more (“You could be making a mint off these, Basil! What’re you doing, holing up with these at home, building yourself a nest? Don’t be such a coward!”) and I’d finally given in, if only to get her to shut up. I had three large paintings ready to go, but I still felt the nerves like a hot poker shoved into my side, burning me from the inside out.

“Of course I’m ready,” I say through my teeth. “It’s in two days. Unlike you, I don’t procrastinate everything until the night before.” Dev grins at me, and he’s got another mouthful of food, and it’s horrific.

“Well, I can’t wait to see them.”

I stare at him, straw halfway to my mouth. “You’re _coming_? You’ve never come to one of my shows before.”

“Thought you might like some support.”

“What ever gave you that idea?” Dev shrugs and doesn’t say anything, focusing on his disgusting food again. “I… thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, Basil.”

I head back to my apartment, my classes over for the day and with half a mind to take a nap, even knowing how it’ll ruin me later. Usually, I’d spend the rest of the night in the studio, but the sore ache behind my eyes is getting to be too much. And I’m _hungry_. I’m regretting not eating lunch, especially since that had been the point of meeting Dev today. My cousin had looked dubiously at my milkshake, but hadn’t commented.

In the end, I decide to go to the bakery down the street. The scone Snow had given me had been wrapped in paper with the store’s name printed repeatedly across it had actually been quite good, even when it was lukewarm.

When I step inside the cushy space, I immediately regret it, because there’s Penelope, Simon’s other friend, behind the counter. Another potential girlfriend? Probably not.

If I didn’t know any better, I would think this idiot boy is trying to take over my entire life. But it’s too late for me to step out, she’d called out a welcome when the door chimed, so I step over to the line. I stare hard at the pastries behind the glass without really seeing them.

“Basil!” Penelope greets me, and I’m taken aback by the friendly tone. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before.”

“I’ve - never come in.” I swallow down any snarky remarks, ready to make nice. “Snow brought me one of your scones the other day, and it was quite good. I wanted to see the source.” She smiles at me, and her chubby cheeks push up her garish turquoise glasses.

“Well, you came at a good time. Just took the cherry scones out of the oven. How many would you like?”

“Ah - just two, I think.” Penelope nods and pushes the glass open, wrapping the two pastries in wax paper before slipping them into a bag and handing it to me. “How much do I -?” She’s shaking her head, and I frown at her.

“Take ‘em. I’m glad we’ve a new convert, and I expect to see you in here more often, alright?” And then she winks at me. Inexplicably.

“Yeah… alright. Thanks, Penelope.” She looks pleased, and gives me a small wave as I turn to go. I leave feeling oddly warm, if a bit confused by the kindness I’ve been shown by Simon’s two friends, after the treatment I’ve subjected him to. Maybe they’re all just too nice for their own good.

My keys are in my hands, hovering by my lock, when I have an idea. I go across the hall and knock before I can talk myself out of it, and wait. Snow could easily not be home. But then I hear a thump and a grunt inside, followed by a moment of silence before the lock clicks and the door swings open. Simon is staring at me, brow quirked and glasses on, half of his hair poking up like a rat’s nest.

“Yeah?”

I try not to frown as I dig into the bag and take out one of the scones, holding it out to him. He takes it slowly, looking at the pastry and then back up at me, eyes wide. And then I turn away, quickly unlocking my door and diving inside before Simon can get a word out. I shut myself in and lean back heavily against the door, breathing heavily and closing my eyes.

What was I thinking? What the fuck was that? Simon probably thinks I’m an asshole as well as a fucking weirdo now. Not like it matters.

Safely in my apartment, alone, I kick off my shoes and wander through to the second bedroom of the flat, which I’d converted for my use to a type of studio. But it’s carpeted, so I mostly use it for storage, supplies and paintings. The three I’m planning on selling are carefully leaning against the wall, staring at me.

One of them had sprung from an absolute fit, when I’d woken in the middle of the night with the shakes, drank three mugs of tea, and shoved paint across a canvas until I was happy (or as happy as I get) and went back to bed. The other two were from this summer, when I’d spent two dreadful weeks at home, closed into the studio my father had decked out for me three years ago for my birthday. That was the only good part of going back to the family manor. (That, and my little sister, Mordelia. I give her a lot of shit, but I’m actually quite fond of her.)

Those two pieces aren’t within my usual style. One is far more colorful than anything else I ever do, with flowering branches and a fading backdrop. The other was a fluke, some error of my subconscious. It was of a kneeling figure, a dancer, in her final resting position in the bottom corner of the canvas, bathed in dim light but with darkness surrounding the edges. It reflected Snow’s animation, and I hadn’t realized it until I was through. I might have painted over it, but it was beautiful, and I ended up keeping it.

I’m ready to be rid of it. After everything that’s happened, I don’t need any more reminders of Simon Snow. There’s no way he won’t avoid me now, and I try to tell myself it’s for the best.

I should make some tea.

 

**PENNY**

I’m exhausted when I get back to the apartment. The evening rush was hellish - we’d run out of filling for the eclairs, and I thought the roof was sure to fall it.

I might have been grateful if it had.

All I want to do is rip off my clothes, take a bath, and go to bed, but instead, Simon greets me at the door like a dejected dog, having another one of his stresses.

“He actually came into the bakery?” he asks, following me as I go into the kitchen to shove a piece of cake I’d stolen in the fridge. “Like, he was actually able to get through the door? I thought vampires had to be invited in.”

I look at him skeptically, furrowing my brows. “Simon - what? How is he a vampire? Aren’t vampires pale? His skin is nearly darker than mine.”

“With a widow’s peak like that, you’d doubt it?”

“He can’t help his hairline, Simon.” I’m too tired for this conversation. I continue to my room to put on my robe for the bath. Simon stays in the living room, but keeps talking to me, elevating his volume.

“Was he rude? Did he shove over the other customers in line? _Did you see him put poison in my scone?_ ”

“You ate it, didn’t you? You’re not dead yet. If you were, I’d have some peace right now.”

“It could be slow working!” I come out of my room, comfy in my fluffy yellow robe, and stare at Simon tiredly.

“He was incredibly polite, Simon. He complimented the one you gave him, and thanked me by name when he left. I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up over. He’s not out to kill you.”

“He’s a _wanker_ , Penelope! You said it yourself, he’s endlessly contrary!” Simon leans over the back of the couch, spreading his arms at me wildly. “He’s trying to turn all the people in my life over to his side!”

“Simon, for the love of God.” I close myself in the bathroom and flick the lock loudly for good measure, making sure Simon hears it. I hear him groan, but he doesn’t keep trying to yell at me. I turn my music on loudly and start the bath water, sliding in before it’s finished filling and not minding the heat.

I glare at my nails. They’re caked with both flour and clay. That’s the struggle of being a sculptor - it’s all but ruined my hands and my nail beds. I try to let them soak in the bath, beneath the foaming fizz coming from my bath bomb, but I’m too fidgety. I dry my hands and reach for my phone, typing a quick text to Micah to see what he’s up to. Maybe I can convince him to bring me dinner.

 _Sure thing_ , he texts back almost immediately. _Curry_?

Perfect.

 

**SIMON**

This new job has honestly been really good. Even if it did take me a bit to figure out the register. It kept honking at me anytime someone tried to put their card in, and it took me too long to realize it was in the wrong mode.

Anna’s been very sweet, gently reminding me of things I forget when I need it. She blushes whenever I ask her a question and it’s kind of adorable.

It’s Wednesday, and we’re decorating the store for the event this evening, another one of the big local sales. Penny has two pieces she’s putting in, and I’m excited to see the party. I know a few of the other kids from the art school will be there, and I’m intrigued to see what they decide to sell, if I’d seen any of them hanging in the halls at school.

I can’t help but wonder if Baz will be there. Baz. _Basil_. I haven’t seen him since Monday with the whole scone thing. I figure he’s been holed up in his studio, being a recluse and hissing at sunlight, or whatever. I couldn’t help but take in the dark circles under his eyes the other day.

I don’t imagine he’ll be here - that would mean actually interacting with people. Smiling. Selling. I can’t fathom Baz willingly doing any of those things. The thought makes me snicker.

We’re closing up at seven for an hour, so we can all run home and put on nicer clothes. I end up taking a shower, trying to tame my curls to look a little more presentable, and dress in the smart suit Agatha helped me pick out. It’s sky blue, perfectly fitted, and I push the sleeves up to my elbows so my tattoos are visible. Blank ink wings, my designs, on the insides of both of my forearms. The white button-down underneath is well-fitted also, so if I get hot (which I tend to), I can easily take the jacket off and still look nice.

Penny finishes up about the same time, stepping out of her room and coughing. I look up from my phone and feel my jaw drop. She looks amazing - her normally frizzy curls have been tamed into a sleek braided crown around the top of her head. She’s wearing a deep green, flower-covered dress with a very vintage feel to it, with a boat neck and a natural waistline, and a pair of shiny heels finish the look.

“Holy shit, Penny,” I say, pushing up from the armchair, “you look - amazing. Seriously.”

“Such a way with words,” Penny says fondly, going to pick up the box holding her sculptures. I intercept, grabbing the box and slipping away.

“Uh-uh, no way you can carry these looking like that. I won’t have anything distracting Micah from how good you look!”

“He’s already my boyfriend, Simon, I don’t have to impress him anymore! Give me my stuff!”

“No way! I won’t drop them, Penn, I swear.” She glares at me, hands on her hips. “Penny. _Trust_ me. I would never, ever let anything happen to these.” She finally relents about the time that there’s a knock on the door, and she goes to let Micah in. He comes into the room, raving about how good Penny looks, and I think he must have had a heads-up on her outfit. His suit complements her dress perfectly, a navy blazer with tan trousers, and a tie the exact green of her dress.

I like Micah, but the guy always makes me feel small. I’m not short, at a hundred and eighty-two centimeters, but Micah has to be nearly two hundred.

“Looking good, Simon,” Micah says, grinning at me with his blinding white teeth. “Working man. Congrats on the new job, dude.” He offers me his massive hand, and I grip it firmly, smirking.

“Thanks, Micah. Penny kind of forced me, but I’m glad she did.”

“I’m convinced she knows what’s best for both of us at this point. I’ve stopped arguing with her.”

“That is _false_ , and you know it!” Penny calls from her room, where she’d left her clutch. “You argue with me! Constantly! About everything!”

“Only to keep you on your toes, babe!” She comes out of her room, snickering and shaking her head, and Micah stops her to press a kiss to her temple as she passes him.

“Ready then, boys? Simon can’t be late.”

Micah turns to me. “Want me to take her sculptures, man? I don’t mind carrying them.”

I shake my head. “No, no, I’ve got them, don’t worry.” He doesn’t argue, going to take Penny’s arm. I step out the door first, and they follow me out, locking up behind us.

When we get to the store a bit before eight, there’s hardly anyone there apart from a few of the selling artists. Penny told me that people who aren’t selling don’t usually show up until eight-thirty or nine, so I’m not really surprised at how quiet it is. Anna is excited to see Penny, recognizing her from last time, and Penny takes a moment to introduce Anna to Micah. I continue on ahead, taking the sculptures to the spot where Penny wanted to set up, carefully placing the two beautiful sculptures on display before continuing to the back room.

My manager is back there, a big man named Alex, and he tells me my main role tonight is just greeting and talking to people, and making sure that the hors d’oeuvres and wine don’t run out. Which is fantastic, because I’m really good at talking to people.

I return to the main room, dazzled by how posh everyone looks, and approach one of the artists. It’s a boy I recognize from school, and Penny and Micah wander up and fold easily into the conversation. When it gets to eight o’clock, the door swings open, and I look over.

And there’s Baz, standing in the doorway and staring back at me, holding three canvases very carefully, another boy following him in and nearly running into him.

“Oi, Basil, go on, mate,” Simon hears the boy say behind Baz, and it’s like he gets an electric shock. He comes all the way inside and goes to set up, obviously used to the routine. I try not to watch him, but he looks so good in a fitted green and black suit (more posh than the rest of us) that I can’t really help it. I give him a few minutes to set up and get his bearings, before I excuse myself from my conversation and start over.

Baz actually meets me halfway, leaving his companion by his paintings, hidden from my view.

“Er, hi,” I say, trying for a smile, and it’s awkward. “I’d actually been wondering if you were going to be here.”

“I always come to these.” I’m startled, then look around the room for Penny, who could have (and _should_ have) warned me. I find her watching us, looking smug. “But _you’ve_ never been here before.”

“Oh. Well, no. I just started working here last week, and -”

“You _work_ here?” Baz cuts me off, and I take a half step back. “Sorry, just - ehm, congratulations. On the new job. I’m in here all the time.”

“Oh! Thanks.” An uncomfortable pause settles over us, in which Baz shoots the cuffs of his green blazer, a faint blush on his dark cheeks. “Thanks, by the way. For the other day.” Baz looks confused, so I add, “For the scone?”

A slight nod. “Just returning the favor.”

I figure he must be shit at things like this, but he’s actually working to be friendly. I make up my mind suddenly and offer Baz my hand. He stares at it like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with it.

“How about a truce, Basil? It’s clear we can’t avoid each other, you seem to be basically everywhere I go anymore - and you seem like an okay bloke. Maybe not friends, yet. But not all this bickering. What do you think?”

He stares at me, so fucking cool, like he’s just mulling it over, weighing his options. Finally, like a swan lifting its head, he raises his hand and places it in mine. His skin is smooth and surprisingly cold, but his grip is solid. “Alright, then. A truce.”

 

**BAZ**

I don’t know what to do with myself now. I didn’t expect Snow to be at this sale, let alone looking so fucking good in that suit. The color perfectly balanced with his skin and his eyes, it was hard to look away. I’m not ready to admit how badly I’ve got it for this stupid boy, when I don’t even know if he’s gay or not.

We parted ways after shaking hands, which had been almost too much, and I returned to Dev.

“Who was that then?” he asks, having watched the whole unfortunate exchange. “Guy turned bright red when he saw you. Nearly matched his hair.” I look sharply at Dev.

“Did he really?”

“Yeah, mate, I figured he was your boyfriend or something. Or maybe that you two were just fucking, I dunno.”

I nearly choke, but pass it off as a scoff. “Don’t be so vulgar, Dev, good lord. That’s Si-, er, Snow. He’s an animator from school.”

“He sure did seem pretty _animated_.” I can’t deal with this, and I leave Dev again to wander the floor and look at some of the other artists’ works. Penelope is there, standing beside two pieces that really are quite good, with a black boy who nearly dwarfs me.

“Oh, Basil!” Penny calls me over like we’re friends, and maybe we are. I step over. “Baz, this is my boyfriend Micah. Micah, Basilton Pitch. He’s a spectacular painter.”

I shake Micah’s platter-sized hand, surprised by the compliment from Penelope. I didn’t realize she was even aware of my work.

“Baz. Nice to meet you.” American.  A bit of a shock, but I don’t show a reaction. At least this confirms for me that Penelope isn’t Simon’s girlfriend.

“And you.” I clear my throat and step forward to look at the two pieces Penelope is selling, and they really are nice, but I don’t know enough about sculpture to give an educated compliment. “Those are lovely, Penelope. I can tell you put a lot of time and work into both of them.” She beams, and I think maybe I said something right for once. One of them is a smaller bust, with impeccable attention to detail, and I think she might have used Simon as a reference, because the nose and the hair look impressively familiar. The other is a bit more abstract and quite a bit larger, possibly two people embracing, but the colors are far more aggressive than the neutral white of the bust.

I continue on, replying with a few quiet words to any greetings, but I keep mostly to myself. I’m painfully aware of Snow bouncing around the room like a hyper mutt, talking to pretty much everyone. I’ll glance at him now and then, because I’m weak, and always seem to catch him turning away, a blush spreading across the back of his neck.

Agatha shows up at some point, and she makes sure to say hi to me (and Dev, who’s awestruck by her), before going over to Penelope and hugging her and the American boyfriend.

I don’t see Snow again for another hour, when he finally wanders over, where Dev left me on my own to try his luck at flirting with Agatha, who clearly has no interest.

Simon smiles at me, shy again, and takes his time looking at the two paintings I have remaining. The flowering one sold almost immediately, to an older woman I didn’t recognize, and who gave me far more than my asking price. When his eyes slide to the dancer, I freeze, remembering where the idea came from. He goes stiff as well, leaning closer to the canvas.

“That’s -” He doesn’t continue, looking at me in alarm.

“I saw your animation reel at the student showcase.” No point in hiding anything now. “The ballerina clip… it was hauntingly beautiful.” He runs his hands through his hair, looking back at my canvas as I continue. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wasn’t really thinking about it when I made this. But I realized when I finished, I’d tried to draw some of the emotion out of yours.”

He’s quiet for a long moment after I finish explaining, and I’m worried he’s going to get mad at me for plagiarizing or something. Instead, the eyes that turn to me are like pools of warm water, flickering under the surface, and I’m instantly drawn in. “Baz, this is - amazing. Really. You somehow captured - everything. All of it.” He looks back at it, and my heart catches.

This is too much of a soft moment for my cold, dead heart. “But the bit after the ballerina - two stick figures having a fight? Really? I was ready to shut the laptop off when that came up and ruined the mood.” He looks up at me, brows furrowed, but the look didn’t sit like anger.

“Two stick figures? What are you talking about? I didn’t put that in my reel.” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to figure out if he’s messing with me.

“Yeah, the clip immediately after the ballerina was two really shit looking stick figures beating the shit out of each other. You don’t remember?”

His eyes widen in sudden realization. “Fuck. Fuck! I hadn’t meant to leave that in! I’d put it in there as a joke when I sent it to Penny - I must have set up the wrong file.” He claps his hand to his forehead, bursting out in sudden laughter. “No wonder you wanted to shut it off! Christ, that’s embarrassing. I can’t _believe_ that shit was playing at the showcase.”

I’m breathless, because watching him laugh is such a fucking gift. A gift from the universe that I don’t deserve. His whole body goes into it, his head going back and his legs tilting. I knew he was an idiot, though. Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me.

“Amazing. I’m almost impressed by your ineptitude, Snow. Such lovely work, and you manage to fuck it up.” He looks at me, ready to fight, but realizes I’m teasing and grins, breathing out a weak laugh.

“That’s me, the inept, lovely idiot,” he chuckles, and I wish I could tell him how much I agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title - do I wanna know by the arctic monkeys  
> I see micah kind of looking like alfred enoch  
> penny's dress --> https://www.pinterest.com/pin/172473860708371822/


	4. sheila take a bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ;)

**SIMON**

September comes and goes. Midterms are grueling this semester, and I’m spending any time I’m not in class or at work in the computer lab, eyes glued to the screen.

It was alarming, the first time Baz came into the lab, one day toward the end of September and sat down at the station beside me. He greeted me with a soft, “Hey, Snow,” and then proceeded to ignore me, drawing something on the tablet that I couldn’t quite see. He finished before me and logged off the computer, then pulled a book from his bag and started reading. I had no idea why he was staying, but when I started to pack up, he spoke again.

“All done?” I said I was. “How about dinner?”

“Uh, sure. Anywhere in particular?”

“You pick. My treat.”

“Wha' - you sure?” Baz had nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. Frankly concerning.

He started doing things like that more regularly. Sit with me in the student union if he came across me there. Coming into the art store and talking to me at the counter, even if he wasn’t buying anything. It was weird, but also kind of... nice.

I came across him several times as well, talking to Penny. It turns out they both have a creepy, deep interest in art history, and I can never keep up with their conversations. They’d start comparing the qualities of Sluter versus Campin, or lamenting the lasting impressions of Peter Paul Rubens, and I was done for.

During their chats, I always fall silent, because I know I have nothing worthwhile to add to the topic, so I just pick at my nails for a bit - but then Baz will ask me a question, about my classes or my work schedule, like he doesn’t want to disclude me for too long. Penny usually gets a kick out of talking circles around me.

It became normal for Baz to come along when we left campus during the day, but it never extended past that. Even if we walked back to the apartment together, Baz would return to his flat alone with a soft farewell, while Penny and I went to ours.

One night, when Agatha was coming over to do nails and masks and Netflix, I took a stab and asked Baz if he’d like to join in. He’d seemed startled, but accepted, saying he’d be over at seven.

At seven o’clock on the dot, Baz knocks on the door, and I get up to let him in, trying not to giggle. Agatha was here already, setting out the two pizzas she’d brought along.

“Perfect timing, mate,” I say, standing back to let Baz in. I’d told him to wear pajamas, and somehow he still looked impeccable with his messy bun, tight black v-neck, and charcoal grey joggers. He looks tired, and I think his under-eye bags will benefit from the facials.

It’s almost painful, watching Baz stand there in the threshold awkwardly, hands clasped in front of him and rubbing his hand up and down his wrist, until Penny calls out to him.

“Oooh, Baz,” she sings, making grabby hands at him. “Get some pizza, and then we’ll do the masks, alright? And you’re not allowed to opt out.”

Agatha nods sagely from the armchair, legs crossed before her. Both of them are wearing fluffy robes. “Your pores will thank us.”

I offer Baz a paper plate, and he grabs a single slice of pizza before going to sit down beside Penny. Looking at the two of them is hilarious, because Penny is curled up with her feet beneath her and arm resting on a pillow, while Baz has both of his stockinged feet on the floor, legs straight and uncomfortable.

I heap my plate high with pizza and stretch out on the floor in front of the couch, leaning back beside Baz’s legs. Agatha gives me a long look, which I return questioningly, but she shakes her head and looks back at the TV. We’ve had the show on for a few minutes, some excessively long one with a hard-to-follow plot and the whitest cast of characters I’ve ever seen.

It takes a while of us shouting insults for Baz to join in, and he starts making snide comments about the actors or the shit writing that make all of us snicker.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Agatha declares after a bit, pushing up and disappearing into the bathroom. Baz looks suddenly afraid, and I’m trying to hide my laughter in my shoulder. I push up on the cushions beside Baz as Penny hurries off after Agatha.

“Have you ever done a charcoal mask before?” I ask him, and he shakes his head. “Oh, man. I’m gonna warn you now - it hurts a bit, coming off.”

“Can I skip?”

I shake my head emphatically, grinning. “Nope, it’s a required part of the evening. Part of the experience, Basil.” He sighs. “It’s a bit of a process, too, so bear with us. But your skin will feel _so good_ afterward.” I lean in, my grin widening. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” Baz grumbles, leaning away as his cheeks darken. The girls return then and I sit up. They both have their hair pulled back and their faces are wet, so they’re done washing.

“C’mon,” I say, dragging Baz with me to the bathroom. “You have to exfoliate first.” The look Baz gives me is withering, but I just keep smiling. “Go on, then! This is a chemical exfoliant. It kinda primes your skin for the charcoal, starts the process.”

“Like gesso,” Baz mutters, and I laugh.

“Kind of!” He finally does as he’s told, while I dig out my hair band to push back my hair. I know it looks ridiculous, especially when our eyes meet in the mirror and he snorts, but it's necessary to keep the gunk out of my hair. “Oi, shut it!”

I exfoliate next, Baz leaning in the door while he waits, and we go to rejoin the girls in the living room. They look at us as we come out, and both of them already have their masks on, blackness spread across their cheeks and foreheads.

“This is perhaps the scariest thing I’ve ever seen,” Baz says drily, and they both laugh.

“You’re about to look like that, so I wouldn’t say too much,” I tell him as I take the tub and brush from Penny. They budge up so there’s room for one more on the couch, and I gesture to Baz to take the seat, reclaiming my spot on the floor. “Here, Baz, go ahead.” He takes the tub and the brush from me, but he looks so lost that I push up beside him and take back the brush. Our hips are pressed flush together, and Baz looks alarmed at the sudden close quarters. “I’ll do yours then, since you’ve not done this before.”

He starts to protest. “I really don’t need -” I quirk my brow at him. “... Fine.” Agatha gets off the couch and returns to the armchair, and Baz scoots to make more room.

I lean in and start dragging the brush across his face, and his eyes watch my face. I’m holding my breath, only tiny streams of air going through my nose, and I can see Penny on the edge of my vision, over Baz’s shoulder, staring at us. The moment passes quickly and Baz’s face is covered, but it all feels so weirdly intimate that I get up to put mine on in the bathroom mirror just for a moment alone.

Jesus fuck - what was that? I’ve never been so close to his face before, less than a hand’s width between us. I wish my heart would stop pounding. Maybe I’m over tired.

“This is haunting,” Baz comments when I come back out, looking around at all of us. “Woah, what the fuck - ?!” We cackle as his hands rush to his face, the mask tightening.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Penny says, delighted as she pokes Baz’s face. “Wait until we pull them off.”

It comes time, and we all squeeze into the smallish bathroom together. The girls go first since theirs went on first, counting down from three and ripping the masks away from their skin. They shriek and giggle as it comes off, holding up the pieces, all of us making grossed-out noises at the residue left behind.

“Ready?” I ask Baz.

“If I’m not, do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

“Fine.” We count down and tear, and Baz is absolutely appalled by it, but his mask amazingly has very little left on it. Mine is a disaster. “That was awful, why the fuck did I agree to this?” All of our faces are red and raw, but we’re laughing as we spread coconut oil over our skin and go back to watch the stupid show. I took my glasses off for the masks, and I slip them back on.

Penny gets out her nail kit, and Baz doesn’t take much part, just filing his and covering them in a strengthening clear coat. I let Penny paint mine an awful chartreuse, because I like the gentle touch.

The night wears on, and eventually Penny and Agatha bid us a good night and wander to Penny’s room to sleep.

“Neither of them are really night people,” I tell Baz quietly after the door closes. “Penny used to be, but Micah gave her so much shit about how unhealthy it was that she eventually fixed her schedule.”

“I’d been meaning to ask about the American,” Baz says, tilting his head. “How did they meet?”

“He was in an exchange program at our high school during second year. They got on so well, sending letters back and forth even after he’d gone back to Ohio, that when he asked her to be his girlfriend it wasn’t much of a surprise.”

“That’s sweet.” We fall silent, and it’s not uncomfortable. It’s around one, we’re both getting pretty tired, but neither of us are about to admit defeat. Baz had eventually loosened up during the evening and has his legs curled up beside him on the couch, his now bare toes twitching now and then. I’m sitting criss-cross beside him.

The show ends not too much longer after the girls leave, and the browsing page for Netflix pops up, but I’m not really paying attention anymore. I’m focusing on something else, something about Baz’s face in the half-light of the TV.

“Baz?”

“Mm?”

I turn toward him on the couch, and he moves to face me, then suddenly reaches up and pulls the hair band off my head. I feel my hair fall back into place, a little damp and a little crimped. Baz’s hand is still there, and it pushes through my curls, and I find myself leaning into the touch.

The hand drops. “Simon.”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to go back to my apartment now. Okay?”

I sit up, more awake now. “Why?”

“...I can’t sleep here.”

“Why not?” He looks incredulous. “It’s a sleepover, that’s kind of the point.”

“You didn’t tell me it was a sleepover.”

“I didn’t?? Shit, sorry. I thought you’d figure it was, with the PJs and the masks and whatnot.”

“I’ve only ever had sleepovers with Dev, at which we play video games until dawn and sleep until dinner time.”

“Well, we can do that too, another time, maybe. You’re gonna want to stay, though. In the morning, I’m making _waffles_.” It’s the only thing I can cook without ruining it. “Please?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “Fine. I’m not even tired yet though, really. I’m normally up until three or four.”

I grin. “Me too. Want to find something else to watch?” Baz nods. “Any requests?”

“Whatever is fine.” I end up turning on an anime I’ve seen before, because I like the animation and I want to see what he thinks of it. He ends up pretty engrossed, though he balks at me watching the dubbed version (“I watch it for the art, I don’t have time to read the subtitles!").

Baz is paying the show so much attention that I’m able to look at him without getting in trouble. Looking at his profile is different than looking at him straight on. He’s got really long lashes for a bloke, almost like he’s wearing mascara. Agatha had mentioned it once in passing, saying she was dead jealous, but I hadn’t really noticed until now. The end of his nose dips down slightly, the top disappearing into his brow, but I think it suits him. And his lips stick out a bit, a dark, almost dusky pink. He sucks on the lower one when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s doing it now.

His eyes flick over to me, and I know I’m caught. He blinks at me, his mouth falling slightly open, and I don’t think I’m entirely in control of myself as I lean forward, towards him. Light flashes across his otherworldly face. He leans toward me, and he’s looking at my mouth.

We stop a breath apart, and he starts to whisper my name, which will break us both out of whatever this spell is, so I stop him by covering his mouth with mine. I feel him stiffen. We stay like that for a moment, closed-mouth, and then I pull back, ready for him to slap me or yell at me or something.

Instead, he comes at me again, aggressively shoving his mouth into mine, and I’m lost in him.

His hands are everywhere, in my hair, beneath my chin, down by back, up my shirt - and then I’m on my back, and he’s on top of me, and our mouths are open and my tongue is in his mouth. We’re like an open current, and I can feel it all the way in my toes, as he’s straddling my lap and I’m pulling at his hips.

I wonder how long he’s wanted this.

I wonder how long _I’ve_ wanted this.

It’s the most energetic make-out I’ve been apart of, I think, but it’s so late, and we’re both fading fast. Our mouths eventually fall apart, and Baz curls up against my chest, one of his legs in between mine. And then he falls asleep, cheek resting on my collarbone.

I deftly yank the blanket off the back of the couch and cover us both with it, keeping my other arm securely around Baz’s shoulders, and lie there staring at the ceiling with wide eyes until light starts to peek in through the blinds.

Holy shit.

 

**BAZ**

I wake up far too early, and I’m confused for a moment, nearly startling up when I realize there’s someone beneath me, still breathing with sleep. I lift my head slightly and see all those freckles, parted lips, and I realize I passed out on Simon.

My lips feel chapped, and everything comes crashing in all at once.

His lips on mine. My hands under his shirt, his gripping my hips -

Jesus.

I sit up slowly, trying not to jostle him, but he’s apparently a light sleeper because he shoots up as I start to move, nearly clanging out heads together.

“Simon, it’s alright,” I hiss, leaning back to keep him from crashing into me, and he’s looking around wildly like he’s frightened. He’d fallen asleep with his glasses on, and they’re askew on his face.

“Wha - Baz,” he breathes, looking at me in alarm and fixing his glasses. “Baz,” he says again, all morning breath and glossy eyes. “Last night - holy shit.” He looks around the room, and slumps in relief when he realizes the girls are still in bed. “Baz, I’m sorry, if I crossed a line or -”

“For Christ’s sake, Simon,” I say, sitting up all the way and narrowing my eyes at him. “Don’t you think I would’ve stopped you? We both know I’m not shy about making myself known.” He stares at me, like he’s putting it all together piece by piece.

“So you… wanted to kiss me?” he says, delight and awe in his tone, and my stomach drops through the floor. Instead of answering, which I’m too tired for, I grab his chin and pull his lips to mine again, because I’m done denying myself everything. No matter how bad of an idea this might be, he’s here and he’s eager, for _me_ , and this is all I’ve been thinking about for weeks.

It’s been strange, integrating myself into his life slowly like I have. I’ve never really done it before. Normally people are coming after me, trying to impress me, and I just let them do as they like. Simon wasn’t like that, though. He’d called the truce, but seemed willing to just let us keep sliding by one another.

But I wanted more. I made friends with Penelope, which is nice because she’s brilliant, maybe as smart as me, with quite a mind for art history. And she’s teaching me a bit about sculpture, which has been frankly enlightening.

Even Agatha’s taken to me, though I don’t see her as often. Mostly when she comes into the coffee shop, for her drink and a chat, every few days. I find out she rides horses, which my stepmother would find _so_ incredibly charming. I bet she’s got a great seat.

So when Simon asked me along to this obvious group ritual, I knew I’d achieved something. Some place in his life, alongside his two oldest friends. And I didn’t even care if it never went beyond that, really. He’s so fiercely loyal, had barked at someone who nearly knocked me over in the union the other day, and brought me food in my studio almost regularly. Like he somehow sensed I needed it, even when he was drowning in his own work.

Simon shifts beneath me, wincing for a moment against my mouth, and I sit back.

“M’leg’s been asleep for hours,” he gasps, and I try not to snort as I push off him, letting him unravel onto the floor and stretch high to the ceiling. His shirt lifts with him, revealing a stretch of skin around his stomach, and on a whim I lean forward, pressing my lips to the softness. I hear him gasp and his hand falls to my head, combing his fingers through my hair.

“ _Baz_.” I look up at him, see the blush spreading across his face, and I can’t help the smirk on mine. The front of his shorts has grown taut, and I don’t want to laugh.

“Sorry, sorry,” I half-laugh, half-whisper, suddenly remembering that the girls are still in the other room. I stand as well, but I stay in his space, so he has to make the choice on whether to stand his ground or retreat. And he doesn’t retreat - I can’t imagine Simon backing down from such a blatant challenge, anyways. His broad arm wraps around me, and I’m reminded that he’s shorter than I am, because he has to lift up to reach my lips. But I come down to meet him, just for a moment, before I make my own retreat and push past him into the kitchen.

I hear him whimper and trail after me, and I’m endlessly smug about it all.

“I didn’t think you were gay,” I say a short while later, the two of us seated across from each other at their tiny table. He shrugs, and I have to resist snapping at him. “What does _that_ mean?”

He does it again. His shrugs are full-bodied and languid, and make me tired just watching. “I don’t know if I am. I’ve - been with both. Here and there. It all feels the same to me.” This is some new information that I wasn’t expecting, and I don’t know how to respond. And I don’t have to, because Agatha comes in the kitchen then, and Simon is immediately bright red.

“Morning, boys,” Agatha yawns, digging through a cabinet for coffee. Simon is already springing up, yammering about waffles, and I stay out of the way at the table. I just watch him.

I guess he’s bisexual, or maybe pan - I hadn’t really considered the possibility of either. He doesn’t really seem to know himself, which sounds about right.

The waffles are pretty good, even if it’s horrifying to watch Simon eat his. He coats it in what should be an illegally thick layer of butter, and then half-drowns it in maple syrup. It’s disgusting.

I leave after we eat, same as Agatha, and she gives me a small wave before I step into my own flat. I feel like I can breathe again, back in my space, and remember I have to be at work at eleven. So I climb into the shower instead of my bed, and hurry out the door an hour later.

At work, I’m not focused like normal. I give out the wrong order twice, use dairy creamer when the customer asked for soy milk, and knock over a drink Niall set out.

“Mate, what’s up with you today?” he asks, so patient but obviously concerned as I clean up the mess. “You’re not even really here.”

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely, and he smiles. “I just - didn’t sleep very well.” That’s a goddamn lie. I slept soundly in Simon’s arms, and that’s why I can’t focus. I can’t stop thinking about him. I’m tuning out orders, thinking about the smoothness of his skin under his shirt, or the number of freckles spattering his face.

So picture my surprise when the boy himself steps through the door during the afternoon lull. He steps up to the counter, looking at me with his dopey puppy-dog eyes, and I call out to Niall that I’m going on my break.

I toss my apron onto one of the shelves in the back before meeting Simon out front, following him as he silently steps back out the front door and wanders a short distance down the sidewalk, disappearing into the small, empty alley there. He stands there, posture lopsided, and I lean against the brick wall, peering at him.

“How’d you know I work here?” I say, since he can’t seem to get anything to come out. He’s never come in before.

“Aggie told me ages ago.” His hand pushes through his hair, and I know him well enough now to know that means he’s nervous. So I let him stew, just watching him, silent. He’ll get to it eventually, hopefully before my break’s up.

It’s not too cold out yet, a little brisk for early October, but I’m still warm from the shop. He’s wrapped up though, in a big, soft-looking coat and a scarf that looks like it might be Penny’s.

When he steps toward me, I raise one brow at him. “Look, Baz - I’m not… good, at things like this. Never have been. I’ve never - dated anyone. Never really wanted to try.” He steps a little closer, and I could touch him if I wanted, but I don’t. “But…” He swallows, and it’s so needlessly showy. Everything about him is needlessly showy. Except his eyes, those pouchy, average blue eyes. “I like _you_. I like to look at you.”

I still don’t say anything, even though my heart’s going so loud he must surely hear it. And he knows  _me_ well enough now to know when I’m just being difficult, so he slowly and painfully leans up, letting our lips meet for the barest moment before dropping back.

He keeps looking at me, and I keep not saying anything, not moving. I remember what my father said about my self-sabotage, but I’m still not moving.

Simon sighs. “I just wanted to let you know that, I guess. I’ll let you get back to work.” And he goes, then, not looking back to see if I move. I don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title - sheila take a bow by the smiths


	5. hate that you know me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit shorter than the others! This is sort of a transition chapter, I guess :)

**SIMON**

Things are different, again.

Baz is still around. He still spends time with Penny and Agatha and I, even came over for another pizza night, but left before ten, saying he was supposed to call his father. He didn’t look at me once when he left.

He still comes into the art store and talks to me, but only when he’s buying something. And our chats don’t last as long, before he gets distracted by his phone and steps out with a small wave.

I don’t know where the extra distance suddenly came from. He’s become such an integral part of my day, I don’t know what to do now that he seems to be pulling himself out of it, piece by piece. There’s a constant ache in my chest, because I just _know_ it’s because I kissed him, and told him I liked him, and I don’t want to press him into something he’s not comfortable with.

He’s not comfortable with _me_ , and I want him to be, more than anything.

So when the end of October is coming up quickly, and I invite him to Penny and I’s fancy dress Halloween party, he’s surprised. And I wish he wasn’t.

“I’m not sure,” he says slowly, when I ask if he can come. “I… don’t usually do anything for Halloween. I might be scheduled to work.”

“Find out,” I say, unable to resist the urge to stretch my hand out and grip his wrist. He looks down at our hands, eyes wide, but doesn’t pull away, and I take this as a good sign. “And let me know. Okay?”

His eyes meet mine, for the first time that day, and I’m so thankful for it.

“Okay,” he agrees. I can breathe.

 

**BAZ**

I’m not an easy person to be friends with. Dev tells me so all the time.

“You’re not an easy person to be friends with,” he’ll say to me, and I’ll remind him that we’re cousins and he’s not obligated to be my friend. “Yeah, well, I like you well enough all that you’re a stingy prat, Basil.” And we’ll go back to playing video games or whatever it is we’re doing, and it’s fine.

But with Simon, it’s different. It has been from the beginning.

I’ve never had a boyfriend either. I don’t know shit about it. His had been the first kiss I’ve had in over a year, when I had a brief stint on Tinder and regretted it immediately.

There's never _been_ someone like him in my life, someone I was actually afraid of scaring away.

“So instead of you _worrying_ about scaring him away,” Dev says one evening over dinner, when I make the mistake of letting on what's bothering me, “you're doing it on purpose, preemptively. So you don't have to wonder if you're going to lose him later on.”

“I guess,” I grumble, moving my silverware around on the table before me. “It doesn't make any fucking sense.”

“I don't know about that,” Dev says slowly, and I look up at him. “Baz. It's not unusual, what you're doing. Christ, I forget how little experience you have with all this.”

“Spare me the condescension, if you would,” I snarl, kicking my leg up sharply and crossing it over the other. The aggression in my tone masks how embarrassed I am about this whole thing.

Dev sighs, loud and long. “You're pulling back because you're afraid of getting hurt, it's a classic move. You don't know him well enough yet to know he's not going to hurt you, so you're trying to keep him from doing so.” He leans forward over the table. “Trying to act like you're not already in too deep to get out.”

I'm startled, but I realize Dev might be onto something. And he knows it, sitting back with a smug expression.

But what the fuck am I supposed to do now?

 

**PENNY**

Simon Snow is a fucking moron. He's my best friend, so I'm allowed to say that.

He's a lovable moron, but a moron nonetheless. Watching him and Basil dance around each other these last few weeks has been _exhausting_.

They have no idea, but I got up to go to the bathroom on the night we did masks, and saw them, curled up together on the couch like two cats in a patch of sunlight. It was adorable, but I'd honestly seen it coming. Agatha and I have been talking about it behind their backs almost since the beginning. And I like Basil. Now that I've gotten to know him, he's great to talk to - I think most of his shit attitude is just his way of keeping the wrong kind of people out, his walls.

And Simon - well, Simon doesn't do anything halfway, does he? He took a jackhammer to those walls, and now Baz is fortifying them in retaliation.

I wish they'd stop playing chicken, so I can stop caring about it.

 

**SIMON**

I'm amazed - and horribly pleased - when Baz actually shows up to the party, and not just because he came dressed as a cheesy movie vampire, in a black and red cape and his hair smoothed back.

“Baz,” I say, because that's all I can manage, and he smiles, actually smiles, and it reveals the fake fangs he’d glued over his eye teeth, and I snort.

“Snow,” he says. I'm a bit let down, because I like it when he calls me Simon. But his tone is all business, even as his eyes glance over my costume. Agatha and I are a set, an angel and a devil, and I've got on flimsy plastic wings, horns, and a cartoon devil’s tail. “Could we… talk?”

“Yeah. Yeah! Of course.” I look around wildly. It's crowded, because our parties always go over well. Penny likes to complain that I have too many friends, that I should keep it limited to a close circle.

“But if I didn't have so many friends,” I always counter, “then how could we throw such epic parties?” She never has a rebuttal.

“We can talk in my room?” I say it like a question, because I don't want to make him uncomfortable. He just nods and gestures for me to go on. I cut through the crowd, grinning at people who greet me, and he follows behind, head down. I'm not used to him being so withdrawn like this. I'm bracing myself for him to tell me he hates my guts and doesn't ever want to see me again.

My room is quiet, no one's allowed in, and I close the door and flick on the light. Then I wish I hadn't, because it's kind of a mess. The desk where I normally set up my laptop to draw is covered in trash, from takeout or crumpled-up paper. The floor is mostly clear though, some clothes around, and Baz carefully picks his way over and sits on my unmade bed.

I follow and sit next to him, but not too close.

He breathes deeply, and I don't speak, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought. And then he looks at me, and I feel it all the way to my toes.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and it's not what I'm expecting at all.

“Eh? For what?”

He looks annoyed for a second. “I've been - pulling away. Closing off. It's what I do, apparently, when people get too close.”

“Oh. Well, it's alright.”

“I just -" He stares at me, his jaw working. “I don't know what I'm doing. I put on a good show, but I'm a fucking wreck.”

“I know,” I say, maybe a little too eagerly, because he looks startled.

“And you _like_ that?” He makes it sound like the most impossible thing in the universe. Someone liking him.

“ _Yeah_ ,” I whisper, leaning forward a hair. “I kissed you, remember?”

“But _why_?” he hisses back, his voice dropping with mine. “If you know I'm a mess, why would you  _like_ me?”

I shrug, because I know it drives him mental. “Because we match.” I lean in more, watching his lips, and they part for a second before his hand comes up to my chest, stopping me.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” he says again, and his voice is so tortured that I sit up and look at him, really look at him. He _is_ a mess - I can see it in the haunted look behind his eyes, the twitch of his hand, the slump of his shoulders. I wonder how much of his past I don't know (all of it, pretty much) and it sobers me up a bit.

“I know,” I murmur, lifting my hand to cover his where it rests on my chest. “And that's okay. You don't have to. We'll figure it out together, alright?” He breathes in a tiny gasp, then nods once, some of the tension dropping from his neck. “C’mere.” He glares at me, all suspicion, and I scoff before wrapping my arms around his back, pulling him to me. He's stiff for a long moment, but then his arms come up around me and his face buries in the crook of my neck, and I grin because I know he can't see.

 

**BAZ**

_“Because we match.”_  

My mind keeps playing through the scene, even as I'm forced to mingle and interact with a flat full of mostly drunk uni students.

It took a lot of energy from me to have such a revealing conversation with Simon, and once he steps into the kitchen for a drink, I slip through the crowd and out the door, closing it quickly behind me.

I'm surprised to find Agatha, cross-legged on the floor in the hall, but she doesn't seem surprised to see me.

“It’s a lot in there, isn't it?” she says, her cheeks pushing up in a small smile. She looks just right in her angel costume, small and almost sad, so I find myself sliding down the wall next to her. “I can only deal with so much before I need a breath. And Simon's room was occupied.” I can feel the warmth immediately spread across my face, and I don't trust myself to reply. She looks at me, though I don't look back until she says, “You like him, don't you? Simon.”

When I meet her eyes, there's nothing there but friendly concern. For her best friend who was brought up like her brother.

“Yeah. I do.” She smiles then, brilliantly, and it's like I'm tricked into smiling back. It's contagious.

“Good. Because I can tell he likes you, and I don't want to see him hurt.” Suddenly she looks serious, her lips quirking for a moment to the side. “He seems like the happiest person. Like sunlight. But he's had a hard time. As a kid, especially, and it shaped him into who he is today. Kind and sweet and loyal, but also… fragile. I just want you to keep that in mind, going forward.”

I know it to be the whole truth as I say, “I would never do anything to hurt him, Agatha. You have my word.” Then I look away, tilting my head back against the wall and breathing out a small laugh. “He’s lucky. To have two friends like you and Penny watching out for him.” I don't move when Agatha’s head drops to my shoulder. My heart clenches.

“We’ll watch out for both of you, until we can trust the two of you not to fuck yourselves up,” she says softly, startling a laugh out of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title - hate that you know me by bleachers  
> I thought it might be interesting to take that line (y'all know the one) and swap around the speaker, and I'm kinda in love with simon saying it instead


	6. just don't let go just don't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit more simon-heavy, cause I feel like I've been losing him a bit :/

**SIMON**

After Halloween, we all kind of hit the ground running. It’s always like this in November - we’re startled by how near we are to finals, and there’s a vicious scramble to catch up with a semester’s worth of work in a few weeks.

I barely see Penny or Agatha, let alone Baz, who spends nearly all of his time in his studio. I poked my head into the room once, and he was facing away from the door, and I actually got a glimpse of his canvas. The painting he was working on was breathtaking, for lack of a better word. I’m not great at describing things, or understanding paintings, but even I could tell that this piece was already a masterpiece.

Painting is one of the few things Baz is bashful about. He doesn’t let me look at many of his paintings, even though I’ve seen most of them displayed in the cases. I don’t know why he’s so nervous about it, because he’s incredibly skilled. And he’s more willing to show them to Penny than he is to me, I’ve noticed.

My own classwork is getting heavy. The closer I get to graduating, the more pressure I feel. The animation industry is highly competitive, and while I know my style is unique and interesting, that’s not always what companies are looking for. I’m terrified of trying to find a job after uni, but I don’t really let on to the others about it.

I asked at work for fewer hours to make up time for finals, and they were kind enough to agree. So I’m spending even more time in the lab, working until the tips of my fingers go a bit numb and I can’t see at all without my glasses, and even then I’m squinting. I’ve been sketching this sequence for weeks, but I can’t get any of it to come out right, on paper or on the screen. I thought my storyboard was finished, but every time I try to digitize it, it comes out all wrong.

I’m getting so agitated, I finally shut the computer down, grab up my stuff, and march downstairs to the private studios, finding myself banging on Baz’s door.

He opens the door quickly, breathless, and looks at me. “Simon.”

“Do you mind if I sit in here with you?” I ask before I even realize the words are leaving my mouth, and we’re both surprised. But then I think that I really could use the company, and he must be thinking the same, because he steps out of the way to let me in. I follow with a muttered thanks.

The room is small, big enough for two easels, a small cabinet of drawers, and the stool Baz usually sits on. So I curl up in a corner, my bag pulled tight next to me, and smile up at him. I sit behind his easel, so he doesn’t get anxious thinking I’m watching him.

He looks down at me, a slight frown on his face, so I drop my own smile. “Is everything alright, Snow?”

I nod vigorously. “Yeah, I’m just - I’m stressed, y’know? And sometimes I like to sit around people when I work, and Penny is already gone for today, and I knew you’d be in here. The people in the lab stress me out because I think their expressions all mirror my own.” I can tell he understands, and he finally sits back down on his stool.

“Alright, then. I’m not really going to talk much, so I hope the silence doesn’t bother you.”

“Definitely not. Penny always talks about how creeped out she gets when I’m focusing, how quiet I get.” He snorts softly but doesn’t say anything else, putting only one earbud back in before picking up his brush.

We work in companionable silence, and I’m finally able to get something of substance, sketching with my brows furrowed and hunched over my pad in my lap.

I don’t think Baz even registers my presence after a while, focused as he is on his work. He’s so engrossed in his canvas that I’m able to watch him, and seeing his face so serious is honestly a fucking gift. He’s sucking on his lower lip again, and I find myself turning to another page in my sketchbook, glancing up at him now and then to find details. The way his bangs fall into his eyes. The deep curves of his ridiculous sharp cheekbones. The little points at the top of his ears, like he’s some kind of elf.

He doesn’t catch me this time. I fill up the page with little sketches of him, some cartoony, some not. I go to the next page and do a few more, and I find it getting easier, my hand moving better across the paper. He’s the perfect warm-up, all angles and marked lines.

It was already pretty late when I came down here, and I know a few hours have gone by when I finally close my drawing pad and stretch. Baz sees me moving and takes out his earbud, raising his eyebrows at me. A glance at my phone tells me it’s after three am. Jesus.

“It’s bedtime,” I say, broken by a yawn, and we both chuckle. Tired sounds, like we’re both too out of it to get a proper breath.

“You go on, then,” he says, and I stare at him.

“Baz. You need to sleep.” He’s already shaking his head.

“No, I need to keep working.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

He thinks about it. “When I woke up this morning, I guess.” I know he was out of his flat at eight this morning, because his first class is at nine-thirty.

“Fucking ridiculous. Pack your shit up, you’re going home too.” I hop to my feet, ignoring the spinning at the sudden altitude, and glare at him. He knows better than to argue with me when my jaw is clenched and my shoulders are out. He very resignedly puts away his paints and his brushes, cleaning them quickly with turpenoid, then hoists his bag on his shoulder.

“Alright, then, Snow. Let’s go.”

We walk together, in silence again, and we’re still bad at keeping pace with one another. I’m slower than usual, because I’m tired, and his legs are already so much longer than mine. I try to hurry to keep up, and he finally slows down, and our shoulders brush. It’s like an electric shock. He speeds up.

When we get upstairs in the apartment, he goes to his door, and I follow him. He stops before putting the key in the lock, furrowing his brows at me.

“...Good night, Snow.”

“I want to make sure you eat something.”

“I’ll _eat_.”

“Yeah, but I don’t _know_ that.”

Baz lets out an angry breath, looking at me. “You can’t just invite yourself into my flat.”

“Invite me, then.” I’m too tired to care that I’m being difficult. I guess he agrees, because he unlocks the door and doesn’t slam it immediately in my face.

This is the first time I’ve been in his flat. I close the door quietly behind me, since it’s nearly four, and take it in.

I know he doesn’t have a roommate, but he’s put a little bit into decorating the space. I recognize one of his paintings on the wall, the muted color scheme matching well with the wall’s soft tan. He’s got two lamps with beaded shades, and it’s all very neat. It doesn’t really looked lived in, until Baz tosses his bag onto the couch and continues into the kitchen. I put my own by the front door and follow him.

The kitchen is nearly the size of ours and seems even less used, the only thing out on the counter being a coffeemaker, a microwave, and a line of frivolous mugs, which is hilarious to my sleep-deprived mind. I pick one up, flamingo-shaped, the one behind it printed with a mustache, and the one behind that reading ‘World’s Okayest Dad.’

“Wow,” I say, leaning over them and laughing. Baz looks over from the fridge and snorts.

“Gifts from my aunt,” he explains. “She thinks she’s so fucking funny.”

“Pretty funny to me.” I pick up another one, plain white, until I look inside and see the bottom reads in swirly script, _You’ve been poisoned._

“Well, you both have a shit sense of humor.”

I just laugh and lean back against the countertop, watching him as he throws a bowl of leftover pasta in the microwave. “Do you see your aunt a lot?”

He doesn’t seem too suspicious of my motives as he answers. “A fair amount. I go to my family’s home during the summer, and she’ll come by to visit now and then. But she lives in London.”

“You get on well with your family then?” I don’t know if he’d normally be so forthcoming if it weren’t four am.

“Not as much. My dad’s even more difficult than I am, if you’d believe it. I like my stepmom well enough, but with them and four siblings running around, it gets taxing to be home.” He takes out the food, pokes it, and then puts it back in for another minute and a half. “The oldest of my siblings though, Mordelia, we get along pretty well. Make a good team against the others. She’s only thirteen, but she’s too smart for her own good - not that I’d ever tell her so.”

I’m impressed by the outpour of information. It feels unfair, so I nod before saying, “I wish I’d had siblings. It was just me and Agatha, and she’s not really my sister. Close enough, though.” Baz looks over at me, doesn’t press, so I keep going. “M’dad David was… well, he was a bit of a loony. I was with him til I was ten or so, and he had a manic episode. Killed some birds, he kept birds, and then he tried to kill me.” I’m rambling, but I can’t stop, the words falling out of my mouth without me really registering them. “My mum died having me, so it was just us. Me and David. He came at me, hands bloody, but I was small enough I was able to slip away. Ran to my neighbor’s, called the police, and they came and took him away. The Wellbeloves took me in, Agatha and I had made friends at school and God knows they had money to spare. Her dad’s a doctor, her mum’s some posh beauty queen type -”

“Simon,” Baz cuts in, and I realize he’s staring at me in alarm. I swallow. “I - Jesus.” He puts his bowl down and comes over to me, and I flinch without meaning to, and he slows down, reaching out to take my arm.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, and it occurs to me that I’m crying, and I’m horrified by this sudden realization, and I’m shrinking away from Baz. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -” Baz hushes me and gently pulls me against him, his arms wrapping around my shoulders.

 

**BAZ**

I don’t know what else to do. We’re strung out of our minds, exhausted beyond belief, because it’s so late and we’ve both been burning the candle at both ends. So when Simon is standing in front of me, suddenly telling me his tragic life story and tears start running down his face, I don’t know what else to do but wrap him up in my arms.

And it does help, I think, because he’s still shaking, but he’s gripping my shirt, his face wet against my neck.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters again after a few minutes of quiet sniffling. “I don’t know where this - came from, I’m not weepy -”

“Simon,” I say quietly, pulling away enough so I can look him in the eyes. He meets mine, and I’m nearly struck dumb by how the wetness makes those baby blues suddenly mesmerizing. “You don’t have to apologize to me for your trauma. Okay?” I tilt my head down and kiss his forehead, and I hear him take a shuddering breath. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me. And I’m sorry.”

“S’not your fault,” he grumbles, the grip on my shirt loosening a small amount.

“Nor is it yours.” His lower lip trembles, and I reach up and pass my thumb across it. “Alright, then? All cried out?” He laughs weakly and nods, bringing his wrist up to take his glasses off and wipe at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “Good. How about some tea?” It’s all I know how to do when someone’s this upset. It’s all my mother did for me when I’d have fits, sit me down across a steaming mug and talk me down.

Simon’s face splits in a sudden yawn, and I can see all the way down the back of his throat. “I think I’d better just go to bed,” he says, embarrassed, and I agree. “I’ll let myself out.”

“No.” He’s confused, and I grab his wrist carefully. “You think I’m going to send you back by yourself, like this?” He just stares at me. “Are you hungry?” A shake of his head. “Then go ahead and lay in my bed. I’ll be in in a second. Alright?” He luckily doesn’t take anymore convincing, just knocks his head into my shoulder before slinking out of the room.

I shovel pasta into my mouth, ravenous suddenly, then follow him. He’s curled up on top of the sheets, and I remember he runs hot, with his shirt off and wearing a pair of my joggers. I think he’s asleep as I sit down, but his eyes flutter open and he holds a hand out to me. I rest my hand on his, and his thumb moves several times across the back of mine.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his eyes closing already, and he rolls over to face the wall. I don’t get under the blankets, just lay down and curl up against his back, because he radiates heat, and I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

The light wakes me in the morning, and I sit up slowly. This time, I don’t startle at all to see Simon beside me, stretched out like he’s floating on water, and he doesn’t jump up when I move. Just folds up and rolls over, facing me, but still asleep. I watch him, because I’ve been starved of him, honestly. His freckles, his nose that looks like it’s been broken multiple times. His curls.

I’d watch him for hours, but my phone tells me it’s nearly eleven-thirty, and I have to be at work at noon. I’ll leave Simon a note for when he wakes up.

But when I come back from the fastest shower I’ve ever taken, he’s sitting up, staring at the only painting I keep in my room. It’s the ballerina. I’d hidden it, towards the end of the sale. I didn’t want to part with it, after all. I’m embarrassed he caught me.

He doesn’t say anything about it though, just looks at me and smiles. “Good morning.”

“Hardly,” I say, because I’m difficult. “It’s almost noon. Duty calls.” Simon nods. He slides off the bed, and I try not to stare his shirtless chest. He’s just as covered with freckles there, and there’s just a little bit of chub around his stomach, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. The prettiest picture.

I know what he’s going to say, so I’m already shaking my head when he says, “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” I say, and I can feel my cheeks getting warm. “Nobody should be alone when they’re like that.” He crosses the small room to me, and I don’t step back, just let him put himself in my space.

“But you didn’t have to. You didn’t have to do anything.” When he tilts up and presses his lips to mine, tentative, I sigh inwardly and cup his chin, pulling him back to me.

I don’t want to push him away anymore. I just want to pull him in, where I can keep him safe and out of harm’s way. So I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title - just don't let go just don't by hellogoodbye


	7. make you feel my love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it, y'all!! thanks so much for all the love and support for this your comments and messages made this so much more fun to write

**SIMON**

Applications for the fall student showcase are posted in the middle of November, outside the main offices. I had nothing from this semester that I felt like showing, nothing that stuck out to me like the ballerina had - but it occurred to me that I’d never seen any of Baz’s artwork in any of the student shows.

When I asked him about it, he balked immediately.

“I’ve just never gotten my application in on time,” he said stiffly, not taking his eyes off the anime we were watching. We were curled up on his couch, me sketching and him trying to do anything but work on art because his hands were cramping up badly, and I had just remembered seeing the fliers that morning.

There was half a foot of space between us, which I tried to ignore. Our toes kept touching.

“Well, now you have the time,” I pressed, dropping my drawing pad to the floor and leaning toward him. He made a clear effort not to look at me. “The deadline is in two weeks.”

I watched his neck move as he swallowed. “I - I’ll think about it.” As much as I wanted to keep pressing, I could tell he was already distressed. I don’t know where we stand exactly, and I wasn't ready to push my luck just yet.

Three days later, when I stopped by his shop for some tea, I brought it up again.

“Penny put in her app for the showcase today,” I said conversationally, leaning over the counter to smile at Baz as he dunked a tea bag in steaming water. His shoulders immediately tensed, and he looked away from me. “She’s pretty nervous about it, but I told her she’d get in, no problem. Like you would.”

He spoke through clenched teeth. “That’s not - the issue.”

That wasn’t what I was expecting. “Then what _is_ the issue, Baz?”

His lip curled, and he practically shoved my tea at me. “What could I possibly put in? I hate almost everything I make after I’m through with it. I could never put anything in with good conscience.”

I don’t think I ever realized how critical he is of his own work. I cast my mind back, to the night when we’d slept wrapped around each other, and when I woke up the next morning. The ballerina, the one I’d thought he’d sold, perched in a corner of his bedroom. The only painting in there.

“The ballerina,” I said softly, and he paused in the middle of restocking lids, hand hovering in midair. “I know you love that piece, Basil. _I_ love that piece. You should put it in the showcase.” I grabbed my tea and smiled at him, and it felt a little sad. “I won’t try to force you. But I think it’d be amazing for you.” I left with that parting remark, and then I don’t see Baz for two days, which was weird because by that point we were spending pretty much all of our free time together.

When I do see him again, I’m sitting by myself on the roof of our apartment, wrapped up in a pile of blankets and doodling idly in my sketchbook to keep my mind off of my animation presentation the next day. I hear a clatter as the door swings open, and I emerge from my cocoon to see Baz standing over me, looking shaken.

“I put in my application,” he says with no preamble, and I smile and try to push my way up, but he just drops down in front of me, grabs my face in his gloved hands, and kisses me roughly, sweetly. I'm surprised, but not unwilling, and I grab the collar of his jacket, laughing around the kiss.

“I’m really proud of you,” I say quietly, sincerely, when we part, breathing heavily. He presses his forehead to mine and doesn't say anything.

 

**BAZ**

They send out letters to inform the showcase applicants whether or not they got in. When I get mine, I take it to Simon, because I can’t bring myself to open it. We sit down together at his kitchen table - he says Penny is with Micah, celebrating her acceptance - and he carefully tears open the envelope and pulls out the paper, his eyes moving over the lines.

“You’re in!” he says excitedly, and I try not to slump with relief. “Told you you’d get in!” I roll my eyes at him.

It was hard explaining to him why I hesitated so much. It’s not that I think I’m bad (I know I’m quite good), but it’s different to submit your artwork to someone and have them tell you whether it’s worthy to be shown to other people. He doesn’t have the same anxieties as I do, and I could never really put the feeling into words.

Simon reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezing it and grinning at me. I squeeze back, and his grin widens.

“What do you say we go out and celebrate too? Anywhere you want to go, on me.”

I look at him, and I'm thinking hard, about that offer and everything else.

“Actually, Simon…” I begin, tilting my head at him, “could we maybe just stay here and do takeout? I don't know if I have the emotional capacity to go out right now.” He looks shocked for a moment, then absolutely beams at me, and I'm blinded by it.

“Yeah, ‘course we can,” he says quietly, lifting my knuckles to his lips and kissing them lightly.

He pushes up and by me to find a menu, and I reach out as he passes me, because I'm useless and so fucking soft for this boy. He stops and leans over me, and I hook my thumbs in the loops of his jeans and drag him to me, practically onto my lap. His hand goes to the back of my neck and deftly pulls out the band holding it back, and I laugh as my hair falls around my face. I know he likes to run his fingers through it, and he does now, and his lips press to my forehead.

I was worried I’d feel more panicked if I got accepted, but here, in this little kitchen with this beautiful boy taking care of me, and me of him, I’m not panicking. I’m grateful, for the opportunity and for the people who helped me get there.

 

**PENNY**

The showcase was brilliant, and not just because I was apart of it (though that definitely helped - the piece I put in was easily one of my best, and everyone agreed). We all went together, Micah and I, Agatha, Simon and Baz. It was funny watching he and Baz flit around each other, like they were nervous of brushing shoulders or touching hands, when I know that Simon spent the night with Baz a few weeks ago, and it's happened a few more times since.

He’d come into the flat late one morning, nearly noon, and I’d assumed he’d been doing another doozy in the lab. But he was grinning from ear to ear, bouncing on the balls of his feet and seeming far too awake for someone who’d supposedly been up the whole night and sporting wild hair that looked suspiciously like his bedhead.

“Hi, Simon,” I’d said, poking my head out of the kitchen door, and he spooked immediately, his eyes flashing wide. Startled, but also… guilty?

“Penny! Hi, Penny!” he said, way too chipper. I leaned against the door frame, wiping my hands on a towel, and stared at him. “Uh, how did your presentation go yesterday?”

My eyes narrowed. “It was fine. Stars across the board.”

His smile returned, but I could still see how sheepish he was underneath it. I know his facial expressions far too well.

“I’m so proud of you, Penny,” he said sincerely, and I wondered for a moment if I was just being paranoid. “You always do so well, and you’re such an inspiration to me.”

He was really laying it on thick. There was definitely something he was hiding, but then wasn’t the time to try and get it out of him. Simon is stubborn when he wants to be, he’ll just stick out his chin and not say a word, no matter how much I badger him.

“Thanks, Simon…” I lifted one of my eyebrows at him, and his grin widened to an uncomfortable size. It looked painful.

“I’m gonna go take a shower! I’ll talk to you in a bit!” And he disappeared into the bathroom. He turned up his music - he only listens to Adele when he’s in a really good mood - and I sat down at our little table, thinking hard.

That’s was when it me. He must’ve been with _Basil_.

I couldn’t believe he was hiding this from me. I guess I do give him shit for talking about the guy too much (“He wore a tank top today, Penny! A _t_ _ank top_! I could see his _shoulders_!” - can you blame me for being tired of it?).

I went and hung out at Micah’s apartment the next day, and he just laughed when I complained.

“Did you ever think that maybe Simon’s embarrassed about it?” he suggested, stirring at something that smelled amazing on the stove top. He makes us dinner every now and then, and I’m always blown away by his cooking. Thank God one of us can cook.

“Yeah, but, I know everything embarrassing about Simon! He doesn’t have any self preservation around me, he tends to just say whatever’s on his mind.”

Micah shrugged. “It’s delicate, Penn. You told me Si’s never had much of a relationship, so maybe he’s keeping quiet so he doesn’t hype himself up too much or start over-analyzing everything like you tend to stir up.”

“I do not!”

“You so _do_!”

I huffed out a breath, kicking at him from the chair I was in, and he laughed again.  “Fine, maybe I do, but it’s not my fault he’s picked up the habit.” My hair was feeling heavy, and I quickly tied it up on top of my head. “So he’s embarrassed. Or nervous. I guess that’s fair, but I can’t believe he’s managed to keep it quiet. He’s an awful actor.”

“Both of you _do_ tend to wear whatever you’re feeling front and center on your faces.”

“Micah! I do _not_!” He looked at me over his shoulder, and I stuck my tongue out at him.

“Just let him come to you, babe,” he said, carrying the food over to the table and sitting across from me. “I’m sure they’re both still figuring out what they are. When Simon’s ready, he’ll know where to find you.”

I hate it when he’s right.

 

**SIMON**

It’s nearly Christmas. Finals are over, but the closer we get to the holiday, the edgier I feel about the whole thing.

Normally I go back with Agatha to her family’s obnoxiously large house, because I love her parents like they’re my own. But Agatha’s got some kind of horse competition out of town (I’ve never understood the riding, and Ag’s stopped trying to teach me), so all three of them are going to be gone and the house empty. They tried to convince me to come with them, but I always feel so out of place among their posh friends, even when I’m kitted out in my best.

I tell them I’ll probably have to work anyways. And that’s true. Now that classes have ended, I’m getting more hours at work, and I know Anna is happy to have someone to split the time with. She was working practically double overtime before they brought me on.

Penny is going home like she always does, but I can tell she feels bad about it. I keep having to reassure her, over and over again, that I _really am fine_ spending Christmas here on my own. I’m good at being on my own.

I start spending a lot more time on the roof of the apartment. It’s not fancy - some of the other residents have put plastic chairs up there, and Penny strung up fairy lights a few months ago, and they’re still up. That’s about all that’s up there. I like to haul up a pile of blankets and cocoon myself in a corner (I run hot, but I still get cold during our winters) with my drawing pad, just doodling whatever comes to mind until it gets too dark to see my paper. Then I’ll turn the lights on and doodle some more, until I fall asleep or manage to wander back downstairs.

The roof isn’t _really_ to avoid Penny and her guilty apologies, but it’s a nice escape. She keeps sending me these furtive glances when we’re in the flat, so I’ll gather my things quietly and head up. Plus, I like the cold. It clears my head.

Clearing my head lately has been harder. I’m glad the stress of finals is over - I did well in all of my classes, so I don’t have to spend the break feeling bad about myself. But there’s the other, boy-shaped issue I’m constantly fretting about, these days.

It was precious, watching him at the showcase. We wandered around the gallery, not touching but almost, and I saw every time he cast a nervous glance over at his own painting. He never walked us by it, and I let him lead, but he kept a close eye on it and the people looking at it. I saw the way his shoulders tightened every time someone made a comment, but they were all positive, so he didn’t have a meltdown (“Look at those _colors_. So emotive.” “You can practically _feel_ her pain.”). Even if he wouldn’t admit it, I could tell he was glad to be there. And I was glad to be there, supporting him.

We’re not dating. At least, we haven’t had a conversation about it, so I guess that means we’re not dating. I don’t even know how to breach _that_ shit. Am I supposed to just look at him and go, “So you wanna be boyfriends?”

I can’t imagine those words coming out of my mouth. Until I’m sitting beside him, watching the way his face shifts when he talks, and I think maybe I could manage saying something as embarrassing as that. For him.

It’s late when the door to the roof opens and I’m startled, trying to dig myself out of my blanket hole to see who it is. When I finally manage to pop my head out the top, the first thing I see is Baz, squatting in front of my pile, illuminated by the fairy lights and looking at me, clearly amused. He’s bundled up, with his hair hidden under a winter aviator hat, a scarf shoved into the collar of his coat, and maroon gloves covering his nimble, beautiful fingers. It’s kind of funny paired with his joggers and what looks to be a pair of thick, woolen house socks.

“Baz,” I croak, my voice weak from disuse. I’ve barely spoken to anyone today, I’ve been up here so long. I start struggling to get out of my cocoon, and he holds a hand out to stop me.

“Don’t get up,” he says quickly, pushing upright. “Penelope told me you’d be up here with your fort…” He rubs his neck, looking uncomfortable.

I tilt my head, peering up at him. “D’you wanna join me?” He looks relieved and nods his head, a small smile playing across his face, and it hollows me out. I start unwrapping layers, and he tries to help, but I don’t think he realizes how many blankets I have, and I see his hands actually shaking with cold.

We finally manage to get down to the base layer, and he awkwardly clambers down beside me, pressing against my side, and he seems unsure of where to put his hands. I take one of them and gently pull his arm around me, and he grins with a loud breath, helping me to close us back in. All bundled like this with only our heads out, we must look absolutely ridiculous, but really no one comes up here during the winter except me. And Baz, apparently.

“I was going to ask you how you weren’t cold out here,” he whispers, his breath coming out like clouds, “but now that I’m in here, I’m shocked you’re not burning up.”

“I prefer being hot to being cold,” I whisper back, and I’m not sure why we’re being so quiet. I clear my throat and say in my normal voice, “Are you cold still?”

He shifts toward me, and at some point during our ritual his legs hand ended up tangled with me. “A little. My face mostly, since it’s out of the blankets.” I lift my eyebrows at this, and carefully extricate a hand from the folds, and cup his cheek with it.

His little intake of breath nearly kills me. “How’s that? Better?”

“You’re like a fucking furnace,” he says impishly, and I’m glad he’s not trying to be soft right now, because I might just die on the spot. “How have you not caught yourself on fire by now?” But he does tilt his face into my hand, pressing against my palm, and I think I might love him.

That thought’s been occurring to me more and more lately, as we get closer and things start to feel less unsure between us. There are lots of things I love _about_ him, from his pretty eyelashes to his full, stupid name (Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. He told me it last week, and I managed not to laugh for a full thirty seconds, which he said was actually impressive), to the way the bridge of his nose wrinkles when he doesn’t understand what someone’s asking him.

But I also think I might just love him, full stop. He’s so fucking good.

 

**BAZ**

The look on Simon’s face, that soft, adoring look, is just about my favorite thing in the world. Maybe the whole universe. I’m glad we’re not standing, because it makes my knees weak.

He _is_ like a furnace, and under the blankets, it’s so warm that I’m actually comfortable. My face is hot where he touches it, and I savor the feeling of his skin against mine. I let myself enjoy it, because I know that he’s mine. I can see it every time he looks at me. I don’t know if he’s figured out that I’m his, that I have been practically from the beginning of this, but that’s why I came up here. To tell him so.

Penelope figured, when she opened the door to see me.

“Simon’s on the roof,” she’d said, thumbing upward at the ceiling. I saw Micah behind her, pop up over her shoulder to wave at me, and I waved back. “His cold tolerance isn’t human.”

“Oh, right,” I half-laughed, because my heart had been pounding as I’d expected Simon to open the door, and I thought I’d confess my love to him as soon as I saw his stupid face. “Thank you.”

I turned to go, but Penny spoke again. “Oi,” she said, her hand coming out to lightly grab my upper arm. I looked at her, surprised. “Just - you’re both idiots. I want to make sure you know that. And if the two of you start messing each other around, I’m going to beat you both within an inch of your lives. Got it?”

The smirk that rose up on my face was far too good-natured. “So noted.”

Wrapped around him now, warm for once in this appalling weather, all I can think is about the promise I’d made to Agatha, and now Penelope. I would never do anything to hurt him. And I’ll keep him from hurting himself, for as long as he’ll let me.

“Oh, you came up here looking for me.” Simon’s blue eyes bore into my own grey ones. He looks almost scared. “Was there something you wanted?”

I can feel myself backing down, something wicked and black in the form of my anxiety closing a fist around my chest. I fight against it, shoving it back, and slowly drop my head to rest my forehead against his shoulder. He must be practically eating the fur from my hat, but he doesn’t say anything. His arm just comes around my shoulders as he pulls me to him, and we stay like that for a while.

The stars begin dotting into place above us, even though they’re hardly visible through the city light pollution. But I know they’re there, even if I can’t see them, and they’re comforting, considering the whirlwind of emotions I’m trying to kick down right now.

I manage to lift my head, and Simon meets my eyes again, grinning with his rosy cheeks, ruddy from the cold. “Hi,” he murmurs, bringing his thumb up to stroke across my chin. And I can’t say fuck all, so instead I tilt toward him, and he tilts toward me, and our lips fit together like it’s the most natural thing in the world for us. Which at this point, it is.

Simon whispers my name, and it sends a thrill down my spine, and I kiss him again, and again, and again, and he’s everywhere around me, he’s everything, and it sends me reeling.

It starts as a muttered admonition, and he doesn’t hear me, doesn’t react. I trail my lips up to his eyes and kiss them shut, and say it again, just a little louder. “ _I love you_.” He freezes under my hands, his eyes flashing open, and I don’t back down, I don’t run away, because I know what he’s going to say when he opens his mouth.

“I love _you_ , Baz, you shit,” he says, and I snort with laughter. “You shit, I was going to tell you that! You beat me to it!”

“It’s alright, Simon, I know you’re slow on the uptake.” He growls, but he’s grinning and it’s lovely, and he pulls me roughly against him, our lips meeting again in a messy lock.

Now that we’ve said it, we can’t _stop_ saying it. We’re muttering it, shouting it, gasping it. We whisper it to each other, giggling like children, as we escape his fort of blankets and stumble back down the stairs. Kissing and tripping over each other, we practically fall through my doorway, trying not to make enough noise to wake the whole building. Not that we’d mind, or notice, either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title - make you feel my love by adele


	8. slow it down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon sits for a painting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh, surprise!! I wouldn't call this an epilogue - more a blurb, from some inspiration I've gotten from comments and asks on tumblr. I'll likely do more of these, short chapters of little things, and I want to do some that focus on Penny and Agatha as well :)

**SIMON**

I genuinely don’t know how I let Baz talk me into this. Maybe it’s just because I’m weak. Weak when it comes to him, absolutely. And I’ve never been good at saying no to anyone.

When he asked me, I was actually flattered. He’s always shy with me, especially about this, and I thought it’d be a nice way to maybe make us more comfortable around each other.

“It won’t take that long,” he’d said, looking sheepish as he sat across from me at our table in Penny’s bakery. We were waiting for her to get off, so we could go see a gallery a town over for an artist that she loves. “It might be a little awkward, but I think you’d enjoy it in the long run. Maybe. I understand if you don’t want to though -”

“Baz,” I’d said, cutting him off and reaching across the table to grab his hand. “I’d love to. Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.” He’d smiled, and everything was grand.

So that’s how I find myself, a few days later, completely nude, hunched over in a chair in Baz’s sitting room. I can feel my legs starting to shake, and the crick in my neck is already so sharp I’m worried I’ll never be able to straighten it again. There’s a very bright lamp shining up at me from the floor, which I can’t imagine looks very good but Baz had seemed satisfied when he’d placed it.

He’s a few feet away, perched stiffly on his stool and his hand brushing in quick, constrained strokes across a canvas. It had taken him nearly an hour just to sketch everything in, and we’re already pushing into two.

Every time I try to say something, he shushes me. I want to snap that I can talk without moving the rest of me, but I’m not trying to pick a fight. I’m just antsy. He’s got music playing over his speakers, soft indie music that I don’t know very well, and I’m brimming with pointless chatter. I want to focus a little less on my aching limbs, or the fact that I’m posing naked for my posh painter boyfriend, who’s only been my boyfriend for two months.

It’s been great, don’t get me wrong. He’s pretty fucking singular, and if I’m being honest, I’m a little obsessed with him. I think he knows it. But he eats it right up, smug git that he is. And I think he’s a little obsessed with me too, so it kind of balances out.

His aunt randomly showed up to visit at the end of December, just out of the blue, no warning. He’d decided to stay here with me for Christmas, instead of returning to his family’s _manor_ (that’s what he called it - Pitch manor. I think he’s richer than I realized, considering his career choice), and his family was apparently none too happy about it. So Fiona just appeared, banging on his door on Boxing Day and demanding he visit with her.

As it turned out, he hadn’t actually told his family _why_ he was staying, just told them he wouldn’t be home. Fiona lamented this to me after we were introduced (me as “Simon, my friend from school,”), really laying it on thick (“So _ungrateful_ ! We’re his _family_ ! What would my poor late _sister_ say?!” - fun way to discover his mother’s dead), but Baz just rolled his eyes.

“For fuck’s sake, Fiona,” he said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch from me and crossing his legs. I tried to make it look like we hadn’t just been curled up there together, kicking the blankets off and folding my legs beneath me. “Can you blame me for not wanting to deal with Malcolm and Daphne? They’re exhausting at the best of times, and I just didn’t feel like it. Alright?”

Fiona’s eyes moved slowly to me, and I immediately felt a thrill of fear go up my spine, which was ridiculous, but she’s kind of scary, with this mad white streak of hair tucked into her ponytail and a nose bridge piercing. “Oh, no,” she said, smirking and sitting back in her seat, “I can’t blame you at all. Not one bit.”

Baz didn’t seem bothered, unshakeable as he is, but I was quaking. I also didn’t know if his family knew he was gay. Fiona seemed cool, but Baz is cagey at the best of times, and we’d only been together officially for about a week at that point.

“So, Mr. Snow,” Fiona began.

“Just call him Simon,” Baz snapped at the same time that I said, “Yes ma’am!?” He glared at me like it was my fault his aunt looked like she could murder me with her pinky finger.

“ _Simon_ ,” she simpered, waving a hand in the air and still smirking, and I thought sneers might be hereditary. “What’s your concentration in, _Simon_?”

I honestly couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or not, but when I glanced at Baz, he gestured at her tiredly and nodded. “Well - my degree’s in digital animation, specifically 2-D. I do a lot of cartoons otherwise, comics and stuff, but I’m planning to work in animation after uni.” She actually seemed pretty interested and asked me some more about my work, and told me she’d love to see something of mine sometime. I agreed happily, and I could tell Baz was kind of impressed we were getting along so well.

She’d brought a Christmas gift with her (a new mug, this one printed with the words ‘Don’t touch me, peasant’ on the side, which I thought was actually fitting), and told me she would’ve brought me something if she’d realized Baz’s new _friend_ was so chill. Baz actually had a gift for her too, a couple of old vinyls wrapped really nicely, and she seemed pretty excited (It took me a while to decide whether or not Baz actually likes his aunt - I finally determined that he does, but it seems like his family doesn’t really know how to express any emotion other than disgust or cruel amusement).

When Fiona finally left, with a few parting jokes and another heavily sarcastic _friend_ comment, Baz slumped down on his couch and groaned very loudly. I dropped down beside him, grinning, and kissed the side of his jaw because I hadn’t touched him once during the hour or so Fiona had been there.

“I take it you didn’t tell your family about me,” I said drily, and he looked at me sideways.

“My family knows I’m queer,” he said slowly, squeezing my hand tightly like he needed an anchor, “but my father isn’t exactly the most accepting. Fiona is, and so is Daphne, for the most part, but I find it easier to just… not bring it up.”

I rested my head against his shoulder, and he leaned his head against mine, and we sat like that for a bit. “I think Fiona figured us out,” I said after a while, and he snorted.

“She’s a Pitch, unfortunately, so she’s sharper than I’d like. All of my mother’s family is.” I nearly started in on him about his mother, curious about what had happened to her, but I decided that was a discussion for another time.

Now, leaning over in my chair, I let out a small whimper as a sudden twinge of pain goes up my arm. The sound startles Baz, who jerks his hand away from the canvas and blinks at me.

“Are you alright, Simon?” he asks, leaning forward on his stool. His eyes flick to the clock, then widen. “Jesus fuck, we’ve been here nearly two hours - you need a break, come on.”

“I can move?”

“Christ, _yes,_ I’m not trying to kill you.” I slowly push myself upright and try not to groan as I let my sore muscles stretch. Baz watches me for a moment, then seems to remember I’m naked and looks away, blushing to the tips of his ears.

He’d been like this earlier, telling me to strip down but staring at his phone until I was seated. He told me to sit leaning over my legs with my elbows resting on my knees, looking down, and it basically concealed everything. We both stopped blushing after the first half hour, at least. I’d thought it would be more embarrassing, but I remembered the live models I’d drawn in my drawing classes - it had just been tiring, not even remotely sexual, and this was much of the same.

“Can I see it so far?” I ask after I put my pants back on, as well as a dressing gown of his, because his apartment is frigid.

“Absolutely not,” he replies, but I walk over anyways, sliding around behind him before he can stop me. I don’t know a lot about oil paints, I only had to take Painting I, but I’ve been slowly relearning everything while I’ve been around Baz more. He hasn’t done much so far, only blocked in a lot of the colors for the backdrop and the base for me, but it still looks amazing. His blending is so smooth, so precise, while still retaining that touch of a deeper feeling. He blows me away.

I loop my arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his cheek and grinning. Baz is grumpy I’m looking at the unfinished painting, but his hands come up and hold my wrists, his thumb passing across the surface of my skin. “It looks amazing so far.”

“You’re supposed to say that,” he grumbles, but I can tell he’s pleased.

“Yes, I am, but it’s also very true,” I say, straightening and stretching again.

He swivels to look at me, tilting his head. “You’re not too sore, are you? We could always stop for the day. It takes so long to dry, we can do more tomorrow.”

I shake my head, dropping my hands to his lap and leaning over him. “I just need a few minutes. I don’t know if I can do a whole lot more, but another hour or two shouldn’t be bad. Maybe another break somewhere in between.”

Baz nods solemnly, and I capture his lips for a quick kiss. I’m getting to know him more and more, and I know that while he likes the kissing, a lot of the time he’s too anxious to go in for one himself. We’re working on that.

“How about some tea?” I ask as I step into his kitchen, fiddling with the kettle without waiting for a response, which is just a soft grunt of approval from the next room. While the water heats, I go back to Baz and crouch in front of him, where he’s still staring at his canvas, a little lost. He usually looks like this when he paints, but it makes him so soft, and I love it.

I gently take his right hand in both of mine and he looks down at me with that little head tilt I associate with him. “Is your hand hurting?” He cramps up a lot, and usually works through it, but I like to help when I can. I press my fingers into his hand, starting at his wrist and working out toward his palm with my thumbs, then slowly up his forearm. His eyes close, a wince now and then, but I know it helps.

“Thank you,” he whispers when we hear the kettle whistling, and I stoop to give him another kiss before hurrying back to the kitchen.

We drink our tea quietly at the table, after I drag him off that damn stool, and I still get a thrill just looking at him. As far as first boyfriends go, I think I sort of hit the jackpot, even if he is a bit of a bristly neurotic a lot of the time.

A few more minutes, and we return to our places. I strip in the most dramatic way possible, basically a strip-tease, and I can see him snickering, even though he’s trying to hide behind his canvas. We settle back into an easier silence, his music filling the space between us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title - slow it down by the lumineers


	9. while you are young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agatha reminisces her past with Simon and Penny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another blurb kinda thing, this time focusing on Agatha and her relationship with Simon. I love Agatha with all my heart  
> Also - warning for abuse mentions

**AGATHA**

My parents didn’t explain anything to me until the day Simon came to stay.

We were in Grade Four together, but he’d completely disappeared from class for a whole week. Teacher hadn’t said much about his sudden absence ( _“Simon will not be with us for a little while; he’ll be back soon.”_ ), so I just sort of… accepted it. So did everyone else, for the most part.

Some of the other kids liked to make fun of Simon, because we were ten years old and he could barely speak in full sentences. The most common nasty rumor was that the school had finally realized Simon was too stupid to be there and kicked him out.

I smacked one of the girls who said that.

But one afternoon, a week later, my mother came to talk to me as I was getting home from school. Helen, my nanny, had gone to make me a snack while I changed out of my uniform, and Mum came into my room and sat on my bed.

“Come sit, darling,” she had said, patting the spot beside her on my sheets. “I want to talk to you about something.” I did as she told me, hopping up beside her and leaning my head against her shoulder.

She took my hand. “You know your friend Simon, from school?”

I frowned up at her. “Yeah. I miss him, when is he coming back? Do you know?”

There was a pause, before my mother said, “Well, I do, actually. We’ve been going through some paperwork with his social worker… and he’s going to be staying with us.”

I remember I didn’t understand. “Until he can go home?”

My mother sighed. “Simon doesn’t really… have a home anymore. I don’t know how much he’s told you, Agatha, but his mother died when he was born. And now his father…” She rubbed her face, looking perturbed. “He went a bit mad and tried to _hurt_ Simon. So the system took Simon away from his father, to keep him safe. Does that make sense?” I nodded, but I still wasn’t sure about the situation. “So Simon is going to be living here with us, now. He’ll be apart of our family. Like a brother.”

This was where it clicked. I still didn’t know how to react, though, so I just nodded again. She smoothed my blonde hair back from my face and smiled sadly. “Don’t worry too much, darling. Just think of it like an extended play date. Having siblings is wonderful, you’ll see.” Another nod, and my mother kissed my forehead. “Go ahead and change. Simon will be here this evening.” She got up and left, closing the door softly behind her.

While I changed, my mind was whirling. I was too young to really understand, I think. It took me several years to uncover the full truth of it; that David had tried to kill Simon, and had been abusing him for years before that. Simon didn’t tell me until a few years after he started living with us, which was fully understandable. That was also the reason Simon had always been so quiet at school; he’d grown afraid of speaking, because his father would hit him if he mumbled or muttered, so he chose not to speak at all.

At the beginning, having Simon living with us was difficult. He was like an injured cat, prone to lashing out, but also keeping to himself a lot. I remember keeping my own distance for a long time, talking to him when we were with my parents but starting to avoid him anywhere else, and especially at school. It had gotten out to the other kids what had happened with his father - though not the full brunt of it - and they used that against him too. While before I had been quick to defend him, by that point I was afraid of being made fun of as well.

So I left him to his own devices.

As it turned out, his own devices were punching anyone who tried to pick on him. Before we moved to Grade Five, he got into six different fights. And he never won; the kids would team up on him, because they knew he’d throw the first punch, three or four against one, and then claim it was self-defense after they’d kicked the shit out of him. He was small back then, skinny and knobbly, and he never had the upper hand.

At home, when my parents would gently scold him for the fighting, he would just sit and stare. He was so despondent around us. I don’t think he really knew what to do with himself. He was so sad, and afraid, and he knew that my parents had taken him in, but he couldn’t contain the mess that was going on inside of him.

It wasn’t until we got to Grade Six that I was ready to make amends. The guilt had been gnawing at me for two years, shame over abandoning my friend when he needed me most, but I had just been a kid too. Simon reminds me of that now and then, when the guilt rises up again.

We were a few weeks into term, and the fighting had been getting worse - my parents were at their wits’ ends on what to do with him, coming home with a broken nose every other week. He’d tried to bite the court-recommended counselor they sent him to, so that quickly stopped. But I saw him, one afternoon after class, cornered in the courtyard by a few bullies.

I could recognize by then how he looked before he was going to swing: shoulders hunched forward, fists clenched, chin drawn in to his chest. He’d grown half a foot over the summer, his torso had gained mass, and I knew this fight would be different. He might win, for once, but he’d be in far worse trouble.

I’d just started across the lot when one of the other kids actually threw the first punch. It was one of the bigger boys, a tosser named Danny, and I guess he figured he had the advantage with his two cronies there, but they were both weedy and small, like rats. So I raced over, screaming and shoving myself between Danny and Simon, who both stopped swinging when they noticed me.

“Oi, Agatha, what’re you defendin’ him for?” Danny snarled, taking a step back. “ _Simple Simon’s_ just gettin’ what he needs.”

“Eat a bag of dicks, Danny,” I spat back, using a phrase I’d heard an older kid say at the store a few weeks previously, even though I hadn’t really known what it meant. I jutted out my chin, daring him to hit a girl, and he seemed to actually debate it before falling back, hissing.

“Not worth it,” he growled, turning. “Guess freaks stick together.” He and his mates slumped off, while I turned to Simon, who’d gone quiet. He was looking at me like I was some sort of aberration, eyes wide. He was bleeding freely from his nose, and there was a cut on his cheek, unbidden tears streaming through the blood and mixing together. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and stepped up to him, dabbing at his face when he didn’t shy away.

“Why did you help me?” he asked in his muted voice. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I answered simply. “You’re my brother.”

From then on, things with Simon improved dramatically. We stuck together like glue, and the fighting stopped altogether. He was incredibly protective of me, and the others weren’t as willing as Danny to hit first. They’d still lob insults at both of us, spitting rude comments at us in the halls and on the grounds, but their words didn’t touch us when we had one another.

I started going to therapy sessions with Simon, with a nice lady named Dr. Ebb who had stuffed goats shoved in every nook and cranny of her office, and who always gave us biscuits. Simon didn’t say much to her at first, but with some urging from me, he slowly started to open up. And once he started talking, it was like he couldn’t stop. Things continued to improve.

When we got to our upper years, my parents sent us to a good boarding school together. This was where we met Penny, who wound up being my roommate, which was a real experience. She was brusque and unexpected, pointedly asking all sorts of insensitive questions that for some reason didn’t bother us, but endeared Simon and I to her instead. Because she wasn’t being mean; she was genuinely curious about us and our admittedly odd relationship (She asked if Simon and I were dating, which I took to mean that she had a crush on Simon - but then she asked me out, and I gently declined, and nothing changed between us. She was the first person I told that I was asexual).

The three of us became inseparable. Penny and I had a kind of unspoken agreement between us to take care of Simon, who was prone to falling apart at random times. The fighting did stop for a long time, but there was a point during our eleventh year that he cracked a bit.

While Simon had fixed a lot of his speaking problems, and was more or less normal, a person doesn't go through trauma like he did without some lingering wounds. Small, invisible ones. Like a wicked stammer when he was nervous, or when he came across a dead bird and went into fits. There was a group of boys that took notice, and took stock, and went out of their ways to set Simon off because they thought it was amusing.

The summer before that year, he’d had another growth spurt, rounding off at just over six feet and getting even broader in the shoulders - so when the boys came after him, even four on one, he ended up on top. Victorious, nose broken, cut by a switchblade, and covered in bruises, and booted into detention for several weeks. He started doing Skype sessions with Ebb. He grew quiet again.

Penny and I stuck by him through it all - me quietly supportive, Penny loud and angry about the boys getting away with just detentions, not even as long a sentence as Simon, because he'd won. She wanted to pummel them herself, but Simon and I both talked her out of that.

One of the best things about our school, though, was the programs it offered. It was a fairly prestigious school, so it had a lot of variety and specialization in its courses of study. Simon was able to explore his interest in art, and he found a lot of peace in drawing and eventually animating. And it was clear to everyone that he had a real talent for it, so my parents gave him everything he needed to pursue it, all through high school and into uni. Penny joined him, though she followed sculpting instead of drawing, and our room always smelled like clay.

Meanwhile, I was a little sad to watch them go off to classes without me. I'd tried drawing, but it became quickly obvious I had no clue what I was doing. Which was fine, I only really tried because I wanted to be with Simon and Penny. So instead, I followed my passion for science into the biology courses, and saw less of them during our junior and senior years. But they always made the effort to include me outside of class, and we spent a lot of time in mine and Penny’s room, them sketching and creating while I made flash cards and studied very hard.

I was ecstatic when we found that the university we all wanted to attend had a good veterinary program _and_ art program. I didn't want to admit it, but I was terrified of going off completely alone to school, though I did end up getting my own apartment while they split one. I got a dog. Everything fell into place.


End file.
